


A Strange Coincidence

by SuPerwaNderer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abused Castiel, CEO Dean Winchester, Closeted Dean, Depressed Dean, Glory Hole, Hurt/Comfort, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Romance, Secretary Castiel Novak, Texting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-16 22:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 43,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5843047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuPerwaNderer/pseuds/SuPerwaNderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is a CEO at a major corporation. He's a normal guy, living a normal life with a couple big secrets. One, his marriage is failing, and two, he sneaks out every Thursday to go to a gay club. What will happen when a note is slipped to him instead of the usual money?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

It was warm. Warmer than usual for spring in New York City. Dean had already removed his dark suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves to expose his toned forearms. He was leaning over the huge mahogany desk in the middle of the large office, looking over green and white and blue papers strewn across the top. Behind the large black leather swivel chair he sat in, stood a wall of floor to ceiling windows, looking over the proud sky line, water glinting just below the horizon. Dean looked over finance reports, HR complaints, and sales projections for the quarter. It was harder than most people thought, being the CEO of a major corporation such a Tritech, but he loved it.

In fact, any day of the week, he'd rather be at work, rather than home with Lisa. He twisted the gold band on his left ring finger when his office phone beeped, followed by a crackly, gravelly voice.

"Ms. Milton is here for her 3 o'clock appointment, Mr. Winchester."

Dean grinned and hit the intercom button to respond. "Send her in."

Not twenty seconds later, the vivacious redhead sauntered into his office, closing the door behind her and grinning. "Hello, Mr. Winchester." Anna purred, tossing a lock of red hair behind her shoulder as she started unbuttoning her blouse.

"Well, _hello_ Ms. Milton." Dean stood and circled the desk, crossing the blue carpet to the woman. His callused hands came to rest over her hips and he smirked softly as he leaned forward, pressing his lips to her neck and trailing down to her exposed collarbone.

45 minutes later, Anna Milton walked back into the lobby of Tritech, headed for the elevator. She smiled warmly, her hair mussed and lipstick smeared, at the man behind the reception desk.

It was, technically, still cheating, that would gnaw in Dean's gut forever, but when a couple was as mutually miserable as he and Lisa, maybe an exception could be made. She'd opened the door with her affair 10 years ago. The affair that had yielded 'their' - and he used the term loosely - son, Ben. He knew the boy wasn't his. He and Lisa hadn't lain as man and wife for 12 years.  
After she'd conceived, they'd talked about their mutual unhappiness and agreed to have an open marriage. Dean was a public figure, an important and rich man, and he didn't want to be all over the tabloids with a messy divorce. That, and he and Lisa had married when he was 21 and she was 18. He hadn't had anything but an old car then, and he didn't sign a pre-nup. Hadn't seen the point. Now he was paying for it, but he was still paying less than he would if he were paying alimony.

The clock across the room ticked 5 pm and Dean stood, sighing and stretching his back. He pulled on his suit jacket and adjusted it around his shoulders. He piled his papers neatly and grabbed his briefcase before heading through the large oak doors that divided his office from the lobby.

"Good night, Mr. Winchester." The dark haired, blue eyed receptionist said pleasantly.

"G'night Clarence." Dean paused at the elevator, hand hovering over the button as he turned back to the receptionist. "Hey, I need you to stay late tonight to finish the filing from last month."

Clarence nodded politely. "Of course, Mr. Winchester. Also, it's Castiel."

"What's Castiel?"

"My name. I've been working here for two and a half years, sir."

"Yeah, right. Sorry." Dean waved a noncommittal hand and nodded, turning and hitting the button for the elevator. He stepped inside and turned around, the doors closing as he hit the parking garage button. If he had had x-ray vision, he would've seen the middle finger the receptionist flung angrily in the air at him after the doors closed.

That night had gone as every other. Lisa and Dean had been cold to one another, never speaking more than a sentence at a time. Ben had stayed in his room most the night, playing video games. They'd had dinner, linguini, which Dean had cooked. After Ben went to bed, Dean went to his office to do some work before bed, then at ten he showered. He was a man of habit, going through the same rut every night, the same ritual. Well, every night except for Thursday. He always looked forward to Thursdays. At least, he had been for the last six years. Dean set his alarm and rolled over in the queen bed in the spare room which had become his once Lisa decided she couldn’t sleep in a bed with a man she didn’t love or respect.

He closed his lids and relaxed under the feather duvet, thankful it was Wednesday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N : Just wanted to say that all of this is only possible due to my wonderful, amazing, and creative co-conspirator and RP partner Meg.


	2. Thursday

The next morning, Thursday, Dean woke up at six in the morning, as usual. Dean stood in the attached bathroom and gelled his hair, brushed his teeth, and dressed in another dark suit, as usual. He spritzed himself with some cologne before walking into the bedroom and pulling on his socks and shoes, as usual.

“I need you to pick Ben up after school.” Lisa called down the hall, knowing that if she shouted loud enough, Dean would hear her. Dean stood from the bed and stepped into the hall, glancing down to where the master bedroom lay, something else his wife had taken from him. “I have a class to teach.”

“I can’t.” Dean responded simply, heading toward the stairs, past the master bedroom. The door cracked open to reveal Lisa’s warm, beautiful face. He had never stopped loving her, not really, and he didn’t think he ever would. But where Lisa had been warm and welcoming, her arms flung wide to curl up on the sofa with him and watch TV, she was now cold and distant. She was more like one of his business partners than his wife, and he supposed that, more than anything, had led to him agreeing to the mutual cheating. It wasn’t an open marriage, they were just both cheaters. He had to be okay with that or else his heart would break time and time again as he smelled unfamiliar cologne in the clothes she dropped in the basket.

“Why not?” She asked softly, leaning her hip against the doorjamb. She was dressed in a lilac tank top and white striped short shorts. He’d always loved that outfit, now it just made his heart twist. He’d never stopped wanting her, she’d just stopped thinking he was good enough.

Dean blinked and shrugged. “It’s Thursday.”

“Of course, it’s Thursday. How could I forget?” Lisa sighed softly and brought thin fingers to rub over her forehead as she closed her eyes. “Can you just skip whatever you do on Thursdays? Just this once? Or go late?” She paused, soft tongue swiping over her plump lips. Sometimes he missed those lips against his, other times he just wished they’d lift at the corners at him. “He’s your son too.”

 _Not my son_. Dean thought to himself, but sighed. “Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” He murmured. He hated mornings, he hated what become of his marriage, but he loved work, and he loved Thursdays. Nothing would stop that.

“Thank you, really.” Lisa nodded, dark hair sweeping over her shoulders as she turned and closed the door. Dean sighed and looked at the white door with the crystal knob for a moment before shaking his head and turning to look toward Ben’s shut door. The boy didn’t know, and Dean did treat him as his own, but Thursdays were his. Still, he’d said he’d figure it out, and he would.

* * *

"Good morning, Mr. Winchester. I have your coffee right here.” The receptionist pointed to Dean’s black mug on the corner of his desk as the elevator doors slid open. Dean smiled and walked into the room with a sigh, feeling much better in the office. He always felt a bit more like himself when he was away from the pain and torment that had become his home life.

“Thanks Clar—“ Dean cleared his throat and picked up his mug, racking his brain to try and remember what the man had told him the night prior. “Christian?” He tried, taking sip of the black elixir of life. “Any appointments today?” He didn’t notice the change in demeanor from polite pleasantness to annoyance and frustration at the wrong name.

“Yes, sir. You have a phone appointment with Director of Sales Jo Harvelle at noon, and an appointment at two with Robert Singer.” The dark-haired man sighed in resignation, not bothering to correct his boss for the three hundred and eighty fifth time.

“Thanks, and thanks for the coffee.” Dean yawned and took another large drink. “I think we should ban mornings.” He chuckled and glanced at the receptionist, who chuckled politely with him, before rapping his knuckles on the desk and heading back to his office.

Dean paused, one hand on the doorjamb, pinky finger just beside the gold plate screwed into the wall announcing that the office belonged to _‘Dean Winchester, CEO’_. “Hey, you think you can pick Benjamin up from school today?” Dean asked the receptionist, who raised one thick brow in response.

“Today? Why?”

“I’m supposed to pick him up, but I can’t, I’ve got plans. Listen,” He dug into his pocket and pulled out his leather wallet, opening it and pulling out the fifty from inside. “He goes to Brentwood, pick him up at 4:30.” He set the bill on the desk and smiled at his receptionist, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you remember my address. You’re a good man, Christian.” With that, he turned and pushed open the oak door, stepping into his office. He didn’t hear the agitated grumblings and unsavory things he was being called as the door swung shut behind him.

* * *

Dean was already pulling back on his suit jacket and getting things ready when the clock hit five. He picked up his briefcase and headed past the empty reception desk into the elevator, grinning like a madman. His heart jumped with excitement as it tended to on Thursdays, and the elevator descended to the garage. He stepped out and climbed into his Porsche, racing home.

There used to be a day when he would step into the handsome abode and holler “Lucy, I’m home!” over the parquet entryway, sweeping Lisa into his arms as she rounded the corner, grinning. Those days were no longer, but that was okay. Life thrummed in Dean’s veins as he climbed the stairs and quickly moved into his bedroom. He was alone. Or rather, Ben was here, but he could watch after himself until Lisa returned at six or so. It was only half an hour. He checked on the boy before stepping into his bedroom. Dean showered and dried before heading back into the bedroom to dress. He stood in front of the floorlength mirror in dark jeans, a tight gray tee, and a green plaid shirt. He gelled his hair and pulled on his old motorcycle boots, reveling in the feeling that he was stepping into his old skin. The man who loved classic rock and driving around at all hours of the morning.

Once again, he was just Dean Winchester.

Anonymity being everything, he grabbed his sunglasses and slid them into his shirt pocket before trekking back to the garage. He didn’t take the Porsche, that stood out. It stood out a lot more than an old ’67 Impala anyway. “Hey Baby.” He crooned, running his fingers over the cool frame as he pulled the door open and slipped into the welcoming leather. “You miss me?” He keyed the ignition and she rumbled to life in answer.

He never really felt like he was James Bond, but he did like the idea of leading a double life. More like Batman, without the running around putting away bad guys. He pulled up in the parking lot of the club, bass thumping loud enough to be heard outside. Dean stepped out of the car, slipping the shades over his eyes in the darkness. He didn’t really care that he looked like a douche, what mattered was that nobody knew he was here.

He paused a moment, glancing up at the name of the club over the steel front doors in menacing red devilish letters. _Drachma_. It was his favorite club in town, and that may or may not have had something to do with the fact that it was exclusively for gay men. Without further ado, he went inside.


	3. Drachma

Dean scanned around the gyrating, half naked male bodies under the multicolored flashing and strobing lights. It was a characteristic of Thursday nights, stereotypical even. He would’ve expected the constant partying in L.A., not New York, and yet the club thrummed with life and the air hung heavy with alcohol and sex appeal. He liked Thursdays because they weren’t packed wall to wall, but they weren’t dead either. Six years prior, he’d settled on Thursdays and stuck.

But Dean wasn’t there to dance. He wasn’t there to pick up a stranger and take him to a sleazy motel room where they would bang the headboard into the wall and piss off the other clientele. He was there for one reason, and one reason only.

Dean was a giver.

He made his way through the sweaty, excited bodies, the bass thumping and reverberating between his temples. He made a stop by the bar for a double whiskey before heading to the bathroom. It was fluid, it was repetition, but it was still exciting. Dean expertly navigated himself into the farthest stall and shut and locked the door behind himself. He sat on the toilet and removed his sunglasses, folding the arms and setting them on the back of the porcelain throne.

The bathroom wasn’t as disgusting as he’d thought it would be that first night. There were some scribbled numbers and promises for a good time, but other than that it was clean. Dean gave a long winded sigh, the only sound in the bathroom, and leaned his back against the tile, taking a drink from his whiskey and hissing softly at the burn. On the divider, directly in front of him, was a hole, waist high with layer upon layer of duct tape surrounding the harsh edges to keep the bar patrons from hurting themselves.

When he’d first seen the glory hole, he’d been in the other stall, just using the restroom as one did, but he’d been curious. He hadn’t wanted a blow job, he’d gotten plenty of them and Anna was… Quite practiced. He was a giver, and since he’d started growing curlies and getting pimples he’d been attracted to men as well as women. Then there had been John, with subtle comments and jokes as he watched TV or read the paper that weren’t at Dean’s expense, but still hurt as if they were.

_“Lookit that fag run.” “Nah, don’ trust them little queers, they’re liars.” “Y’hear that Dean? Idiot says he likes boys and girls too. He just needs to pick a damn side.” ”Kid can’ even stop crying to tell his damn story. Fuckin’ fairy.”_

And so he’d kept quiet, never acting on his impulses. Then, when he’d turned thirty, he’d gone to _Drachma_ with his brother while he was in town. Sam had insisted that he get in touch with the other side of his bisexuality, at least check out a few guys. That was, of course, before the younger Winchester had married Jessica. That’s where it all started, a birthday excursion that led to six years of Thursday nights.

Thursday nights where he could slip into his own skin and feel like Dean Winchester again. Not CEO Dean, not husband Dean. He could feel like bachelor Dean, blasting music in his apartment and drinking Jack.

The door opened and Dean perked up, listening as heavy steps moved into the stall next to his. He took a drink of whiskey and sighed out, waiting and watching the hole. He heard the zipper followed by the shuffle of pants, biting his lip and shifting on the seat excitedly. Then he heard the wet tell-tale sound of a stream hitting the water in the bowl and he leaned against the wall with a sigh. Not this one it would seem. He took a drink of whiskey and pulled out his phone to do more work. He opened Google Docs and started typing when a deep, eerily familiar, voice sounded from the other stall.

“Uh… Hello?” The voice asked nervously, causing something to stir in Dean’s stomach. He could have sworn he knew the owner, but the thought slipped away as soon as he’d thought he’d grabbed ahold of it. It was deep, sharp as lightning and rumbling low as thunder.

“Yeah,” Dean responded, licking his lips and setting his phone down. “I’m here.” A pause followed his words and he listened as the stranger shifted on his feet.

“How do I, uh…” The stranger cleared his throat and Dean could practically hear the blush on his cheeks. He smiled to himself, a quirk of knowing and understanding lips.

“Just get yourself hard and stick it through the hole.”

The man shifted on his feet on the other side of the partition and soon, Dean heard the familiar soft repetitive sound of stroking. Dean smirked and readied himself, moving to kneel on the cool linoleum, chest a few inches from the gray divider. As he moved, he caught a glance of black work boots and dark jeans. It wasn't exactly unusual, and he wasn't going to run through the club, searching the shoes, it was just something he noticed. Something he'd always noticed. He looked up and sat back on his heels as a hard member slowly pushed through the hole, almost timidly.

Dean raised a brow and lifted a hand, gently gripping around the shaft. This guy was thick and around average length, bushy black hair poked from around the edges of the hole. He heard a soft sigh from the other side as he slowly started to move his hand, back and forth, just to get him a little harder, a little more excited. With no other reason to keep waiting, Dean dipped his head forward and caught the tip between his lips, continuing to stroke the shaft as he swirled his tongue around the head and licked underneath. He glanced up to watch nimble fingers curl around the top of the divider, another soft breath sounding through the bathroom.

Dean smiled around the length and removed his hand, slowly moving his head forward until his lips were buried at the base, the tip at the back of his throat, making it impossible to breathe. The sound of wrecked delight the strange man made sent shivers up his spine and he pulsed in his own jeans. Dean pulled back, running his tongue up the slit as he undid his pants and slid his palm down his half hard length in his boxers. He couldn't help the soft sound of pleasure that crawled up his throat, mimicked by the stranger on the other side. That definitely caught his interest, and he pulled himself from his boxers, starting to stroke.

Dean wasn’t sloppy, no dripping saliva or teeth. He expertly bobbed his head, moving faster as the stranger started breathing more roughly, more erratically. His hand matched his pace and he groaned softly around the member, flattening his tongue along the underside and drawing back to the tip before going all the way to the base again. He kept himself there, swallowing around the head and pulling a low groan from the stranger that sent him hurtling toward release. The man bucked forward on impulse and Dean’s eyes watered as it hit his tonsils. It wasn’t his fault he got really turned on by a guy’s cock shoved so far down his throat he couldn’t breathe. He pulled back and resumed the faster pace, dangerously close to the edge.

Fortunately, he didn’t beat the stranger to climax. The bathroom rang with a long groan as the man pulsed in Dean’s mouth, spitting hot liquid into the back of his throat. He didn’t usually swallow it. Usually, he spat it in the toilet and washed out the taste with whiskey. But he couldn’t think as his own hips bucked forward and he spilled onto his hand as the tight coil in his lower stomach suddenly released.

Honey.

Dean lazily bobbed his head over the member, licking up the remnants of the strangely honey flavored come.

The man shook on the other side, ragged, choked moans escaping his lips, and still, Dean repeatedly took him in, running his tongue over the thick vein along the bottom and around the over sensitive head until the man gave a soft cry.

Finally, Dean pulled back from the softening member and stood. He turned around and grabbed a fistful of toilet paper, scrubbing down his pants and hand to get the viscous white liquid from his clothes. The back of his throat felt sticky and his tongue felt coated in the thick, yoke-y liquid. He swallowed several times as he cleaned himself, but the feeling of swallowing marshmallows didn't fade. So, as he turned back to the, now empty, glory hole, he picked up his whiskey and took a drink.

Honey flavored spunk whiskey.

"Um... Thank you." The stranger said. He sounded wrecked, voice impossibly deeper, as though he had swallowed broken glass and gargled with salt water.

Dean raised a curious brow and chuckled, the sound low and warm in his throat, reverberating through the echoey bathroom. "You're welcome."

The stranger with the dark jeans, work boots, and honey come slipped a fifty dollar bill through the hole then, and Dean shook his head, although the man couldn't see it. "I don't take money, man." He reached forward and placed the pads of his fingers on the paper, pushing back through the hole until it retracted. He wasn't a whore and he didn't need the money, he just did it for fun.

"What will you accept in return? As a token of my gratitude."

Dean snorted and shook his head. _Who talked like that anymore?_ "You don't have anything I want, but thanks. Now get the hell outta here, huh?" Dean took a long drink of whiskey and looked back.

The feet didn't move.

Instead, he heard a shuffling, followed by a scratching against the partition. He frowned as a receipt was slipped through the hole, and plucked it from the man's hand. It was a receipt for two beers, writing scrawled along the back.

_'I know it's supposed to be anonymous, but it feels wrong. If you think of a way I can show my gratitude, text me._

_555-9576'_

Dean glanced at the seven digits before looking back up at the foot or so between the bottom of the divider and the floor, mouth open to speak. But the man was gone, and Dean was alone. He re-read the note and shook his head, crumpling it in his fist, about to toss it in the toilet.

But he didn't...

After a moment's hesitation, he slipped it in his pocket and sighed. Maybe he was desperate for companionship after all. He and Lisa had been married for fifteen years, and ten had been cold. He'd never had to go looking for companionship, because it was something he'd always had.  
It took a stranger giving Dean his number for a blow job to make Dean think he really was lonely.

Dean was pulled to reality as the door opened. Not long after, another hard member poked through the hole and Dean got to work.


	4. Bad Day

Dean had gotten home to a dark house that night, his lips puffy and red. Nobody was around to notice, nobody ever was. He could vaguely hear the sound of the TV in the den, but he didn't dare investigate.

The last time he did, he'd found his darling Lisa bouncing atop his brother, naked. Since then, he didn't investigate sounds, and he didn't speak to Adam either. They might have had an agreement, but Lisa was still his wife and Adam, of all people, should've respected that. As far as he was concerned, his half-brother was in the darkest corner of Hell with Lucifer himself.

Dean climbed the stairs to his bedroom, walked into the en-suite and, without any ceremony or pause, brushed his teeth and showered. After stepping out, towel hung low beneath his David's muscle, he grabbed his clothes and threw them in the black hamper. He went back to the bedroom and dried, mulling, as he usually did, over what his life had become. The fire of excitement and promise had died as soon as he stepped out of the club, jaw tired from a good night, and he was just Dean again. Husband, CEO, unhappy Dean. He pulled on his boxers and moved to the bed, pausing for a moment, one leg on and holding the blankets up. He stared at the cream sheets and let the blanket go, turning around and going back to the bathroom.

He picked his discarded pants out of the basket and dug in the pocket for the receipt, the number. His hand wrapped around it, and he pulled it from his pocket, unwrinkling it and staring down at it blankly.

_'I know it's supposed to be anonymous, but it feels wrong. If you think of a way I can show my gratitude, text me._

_555-9576'_

He thought about texting the stranger, maybe to just say hi or to ask if he did that for all the glory holes he went to. Eventually, he sighed and shook his head, crinkling the paper back up and dropping it on his nightstand beside his phone as he fell into bed.

Dean didn't sleep very well that night, he rarely did.

 

 _Lisa, wearing silk black lingerie, reached up and ran her soft fingers down his cheek, smiling softly._  
_'You did this to yourself. You didn't love me enough. You didn't care.'_  
_'No, Lis, I-"_  
_Her finger pressed over his lips as she shushed him and turned around, slipping into the master bedroom where a stranger lay. He could never see the face, but he was grateful for it._  
_'Lisa, please don't.' He held out his hand toward her and started crying, thick tears running down his face. 'I'll try harder, I'll give you the attention you need. Please.'_  
_She shook her head. 'It's too late. It's always too late.'_  
_She disappeared into the bedroom, into the shadows, from where his father’s voice spoke. A disappointed growl in the darkness. ‘You fuckin’ queer.’_

Dean woke with his alarm and slapped his broad palm over the snooze, cutting Asia off mid Moment. He rolled onto his back and groaned, bringing both hands down his face and peering through his fingers at the ceiling. He sat up and went to the bathroom, brushing his teeth and gelling his hair before dressing and heading out to the hallway. He paused by the stairs as Lisa's door opened, but it wasn't Lisa slinking into the light.

"Hey Brady."

"Oh, uh..." The tall blond cleared his throat and gave a nervous wave. "Hey Dean."  
Dean glanced past his Sales Executive and into the bedroom, able to make out Lisa's sleeping face, her naked arm and shoulder, and one breast spilling from the sheets drawn around her. He sighed and shook his head.

"I'll see you at work." Dean mumbled and went down the stairs, feeling sick.

* * *

"Good morning, Mr. Winchester. I have your coffee, as usual." The receptionist greeted politely as the elevator doors slid open and Dean stepped into the lobby. His world was darker, more gray, even at work. He walked past the front desk and nodded at the receptionist, picking up his coffee on his way to his office and remaining otherwise silent. He got comfortable and started working, but all the while there was a niggling in the back of his brain. A curiosity regarding the crumpled receipt on his nightstand and a sad sort of resignation as he realized how worthless his life was.

He, of all people, knew that money didn't buy happiness.

He sighed and scribbled on as paper, sipping his coffee as he worked for the next few hours. Around one, the intercom beeped, proclaiming an announcement from his secretary.  
"Mr. Winchester, a Mr. Cain Smith is here to see you."

Dean frowned, looking over his paperwork. Did he have time for that? Considering Cain owned a business Tritech had been trying to buy out, yeah he guessed he had to be. Quickly, he shuffled his papers into one pile and hit the intercom button to respond. "Send him in."

A few moments later, a tall, lanky man walked through the office door. He had salt and pepper hair and a somber expression, dressed in a black suit and matching black tie. He had an air about him that was both exciting and terrifying, and a sense of confidence that was absolutely sexy, Dean couldn't deny that. "Mr. Smith." Dean said politely, standing behind his desk and offering his hand forward. The taller man accepted it and shook it firmly, steely gray eyes fixed on his. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I'm here in regards to your business proposal." Cain began, sweeping the back of his suit jacket away from his body so he could sit. Dean followed his lead and sat, lacing his fingers on the desk.

"Alright, well let's get started, then."

* * *

At noon, Dean dropped his head on the desk with a groan. He didn't botch the meeting, but he didn't convince Cain, either. He lost the transaction and he didn't think his day could get much worse. But he would come to find out that the saying was true; when it rained it poured. He sighed and hit the intercom button. "Christian, I need a burger from that diner down the street. Come get my card." He sat up and tugged his wallet out of his pocket just before the door opened. "Thanks." He pulled out the credit card from within and handed it to the dark haired man. Christian had been a good choice, a good hire. He was exceptional at his job and, although he may have been tempted to try, he wasn't going to end up in his pants like he had Cassie's.

"Is there anything in particular you'd like?" Christian asked and Dean shook his head, tucking his wallet away.

"Just a burger."

Christian nodded and left. As soon as the door was shut, he dropped his forehead in the desk and closed his eyes again. First Brady, then he wasn't able to close the deal with Cain. He vaguely wondered what else could possibly go wrong.

Then he got a call. Normally, all calls were routed through the secretary phone before they got to him, but with no secretary on right now, he answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Yes, may I speak to Dean Winchester?"

"This is he."

"Sorry to call you at work, but I couldn't reach your wife, Lisa. This is Principal Dougherty at Brentwood Elementary school. Benjamin has been suspended three days for fighting."

Dean blinked a few times. "What? Who was he fighting? What happened?"

"We request that you come to pick him up, and we'll give you the details when you get here."

"Yeah, okay." Dean hung up and stood, looking around the desk with a sigh. He picked up the receiver and placed it to his ear, calling Lisa.

No answer.

He groaned and called his second in command, Benny.

"Hey, I'm leaving for a bit, might be back, but probably not."

"Alright chief. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, it's good. I’ll be in tomorrow to make up the work. Talk to you later, Benny." Dean set the receiver down in its cradle and sighed. Benny was a good, hard worker, his old friend from college, and the only one he would trust half the company with. He stood and gathered his things, riding the elevator down and heading out to his Porsche. In his hurry, he completely forgot about his card with his receptionist.

Halfway to Brentwood, Dean was distracted by a high pitched noise and flashing red and blue lights behind him. He groaned again and pulled the car over, turning it off and putting his hands in full view on the steering wheel. He watched through the driver's rearview as a bulky man in a blue uniform strolled up to the side of the car and knocked on the window, which Dean promptly rolled down.

* * *

Dean grumbled angrily and tossed the five hundred dollar speeding ticket in the passenger's seat. It was a drop of water in the lake that was his bank account, but it was still just as annoying to him as it was to anybody else.

Dean got back on the road and drove to pick Ben up. After a quick conversation with the principal, both he and Ben slipped into the Porsche and pulled away. Dean was quiet as he stared through the windshield, brain going a million miles an hour, when he was forcefully yanked back to the present by a young, pre-pubescent voice.

"You mad at me, dad?" Ben asked timidly and Dean glanced over, sighing before looking forward again.

"Of course I am." He wasn't. "What were you thinking, fighting that boy?" He didn't blame him.

Ben shrugged, staring at his knees. "He said my mom was a whore." Dean's heart tightened in his chest. What the principal had said was that the other boy had instigated by saying unsavory things. He didn't realize it was that bad. He didn't notice the boy turning to look at him. "I didn't like him saying that. He doesn't know anything about my mom." Ben shrugged and turned to stare at his knees again. "I just.. Beat him up."

Dean nodded slowly. "Your mom is a lovely woman." The words tasted sour and rotten on his tongue. "Don't listen to people who talk about her that way, alright?"

Ben was silent a moment before speaking. "He said he caught her in his dad's room. With his dad." He adjusted the straps of his backpack and looked at Dean again. The older man could see it out of the corner of his eye. The fear, the pain, the hope. "But I told him mom would never cheat on you. She loves you."

Dean remained quiet, his throat constricting and burning with the threat of tears. He swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. "Just-uh.. Don't fight. Your mom and I are going to talk about your punishment. You can sit in your room ‘til then. No video games." Dean pulled into the garage and Ben nodded, stepping out and going into the house. Dean watched after him and looked forward, heart twisting as a single tear slipped down his cheek. He cleared his throat and wiped it away, sniffling before turning off the car, stepping out, and going inside.


	5. Rock Bottom

"He _what?"_

"Yeah. With another kid."

"Over what?"

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking at the thick, tan rug over the cherry wood. He'd gone to his office and worked a little more until Lisa had come home at 3 with Brady, thinking she'd be alone in the house. Thankfully, after Dean had approached _his wife_ saying that they needed to talk, the lover had excused himself, tail between his legs. Now it was just him and Lisa, sitting on opposite ends of the plush brown leather couch in the den. The couch where Dean was sure many men had lain with Lisa.

It was almost worse than if Brady had just stayed.

"Some kid calling you a whore." Dean shrugged, not looking as Lisa's face pinched.

"Not this again." She said softly with a sigh, picking at her yoga pants between her thumb and forefinger. "You said you were okay."

Dean's head snapped up, confusion furrowing his brows. "What?"

"About us being apart but together. I thought you were done being hurtful."

Dean had to blink a few times, watching as Lisa's lip trembled. Oh, of course. She thought he was using the fight as an excuse to take a cheap shot. He stared and shook his head. "I'm not, Lisa. I'm telling you what this kid said."

Lisa shook her head and pushed herself up, thin fingers splayed over the brown cushion. "I'll go talk to Ben. Probably ground him for a month." She had turned toward the doorway, but paused once she reached it, hand on the door jamb as she turned to look at Dean. "I'd appreciate it if you'd talk to him, about the fighting. I know what a temper you used to have." With that, Dean was left alone, watching her leave.

Always watching her leave.

He sighed and pushed himself up, going to his bedroom. As he stripped to get into the hot shower, the doorbell rang. He groaned and was about to get it, when Lisa said that she got it. Grateful, Dean slipped under the hot spray, letting it wash away the awful day. Well, that was the plan, until Lisa came into his bedroom and the bathroom therein.

"It was your receptionist." Lisa said in explanation as she sat on the toilet. Through the water droplets and sheer, filmy curtain, he could just make out the shape of her body. All thick hips and gentle curves.

"What did he want?" Dean asked, closing his eyes to ignore the strange intimacy the situation brought, along with a distinct sense of dread.

"You forgot your card at work, he dropped it off. I put it in your wallet."

The silence that followed the sentence was palpable, heavy and thick. Why was she still in the bathroom with him? What else could she be here for?

"I want a divorce, Dean."

Dean froze, hands still holding the lather in his hair. It hadn’t been the first time they’d talked about it, but each time he still felt the bottom drop out of his world. Sure, he was miserable, but they’d been married so long, and he still cared. He didn’t want to be alone, and he didn’t know if he really wanted to be without her. Maybe they could still work it out, although he knew that wasn’t going to happen. "You know we can't-"

"Because no pre-nup, yeah I know." He heard her sigh. "But I don't want to do this anymore. Ben's not going to do well growing up in this environment. He's already not doing well. And... I've met someone."

Dean scoffed quietly. "You've met plenty of people." He responded. He didn't mean to be nasty, but the edges of his world were gray, uncaring, and he couldn't deny that it hurt.

"Dean, I'm being serious."

"Yeah, me too."

"No, you're being unreasonable." Dean heard her sigh. "I'm pregnant, and I don't want to put you through that. Not again." She sighed again. “You were so good with Ben, and I’m so grateful for that, but I can’t ask you to do it again. I know it hurts every time you look at him, I can see it in your eyes.”

Dean blinked at the far wall, clean, tiled white. "No, you can't.. Lisa, you know I love the kid." It was true, he did. He only ever thought about the fact that Ben wasn't actually his when Lisa said crap like ‘he’s your son too’. They both knew he wasn’t.

“I know, but I’m tired of this. I’m tired of being miserable in my own home, and I’m tired of pretending everything’s okay when we hate each other.”

Dean rinsed his hair and let out a long breath, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ve never hated you.” He admitted quietly, barely audible over the hiss of the shower. He grabbed his soap and scrubbed over his body, turning to stare at the water swirling around his feet. His words were followed by a long pause that pressed angry silence in his drums.

“Do you think we can work it out?” Lisa asked tentatively. Out of the corner of his eye, through the curtain, he could see her stand and move to look in the mirror. Dean thought about it for a long time. If he were totally and completely honest with himself, no, he didn’t think they could work it out. Not after all this time. His stomach sunk and turned at the realization that he was losing his wife and the only thing he had to a son. No, his son. Not biologically, but Ben was his. He’d raised him from infancy.

He supposed he’d lost them long ago.

“No, I don’t.” He said finally, putting the soap up and rinsing his body. When Lisa spoke again, her words were wet, choked and quiet.

“Yeah, I don’t either.” Dean heard his wife sniff and he wanted nothing more than to offer her comfort, but he didn’t think it would do much for either of them. Without another word, he heard the door open and shut, and he was alone.

He was always alone.

After a few more moments, Dean turned off the shower and stepped out, wrapping a towel around himself and walking into the bedroom. He glanced at the crumpled white ball still on the nightstand and sighed, picking it up, along with his phone. He uncrumpled it and typed in the number, about to send a text when he shook his head and set both down once again. No, he was being ridiculous. He was fine.

He thought he was fine.

* * *

 

The weekend went fast for Dean. He worked on both Saturday and Sunday, staying all day both days and only coming home to sleep. He was so withdrawn and distant that he didn’t even notice that Lisa and Ben were gone. He didn’t notice until Monday when he got home from work and went to ask Ben if he wanted to go to a Yankee game that Saturday, only to find the house completely devoid of life. He went through the bedrooms and finally down to the dining room before he noticed the note from Lisa.

_I’m sorry._

Dean read through the note several times, heart sinking lower and lower in his chest with each revision of the note. Fifteen years and all he got were those two words. ‘I’m sorry.’ Dean grit his teeth and wadded up the paper, throwing it away. Red hot rage welled within him and he kicked the trash can before picking up the vase of roses on the dining room table and throwing it to the far wall with an ear-shattering crash. His fists shook and he whirled on the spot, stalking over to the cabinet above the fridge and yanking it open, grabbing the Jack within and pulling it out. He popped the cap and chugged half of it in one go. With a choked sob, he wiped his mouth and moved upstairs to his bedroom to change.

* * *

 

The house was too big. It was ripping Dean apart at the seams, and soon he would be nothing but tattered remnants floating through the void. The broken Winchester lay on his bed, in his house, half naked and staring at the ceiling. The floor beside the bed was littered with empty bottles. Vodka, whiskey, and rum swimming through his veins. He looked down the barrel of the chrome plated Colt M1911 with the ivory grips that his father had left him in his will, pointing it at the ceiling, his arm straight. He swallowed hard and pulled back the hammer as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, leaning his elbows on his bare knees. After he’d grabbed the whiskey, he’d torn through the house, breaking pictures and smashing mirrors until his knuckles bled. The house looked like a tornado had gone through, all except for Dean and Ben’s rooms. Then he’d grabbed the colt from his nightstand and started playing with it, toying with the idea of ending it all. He shuddered a long breath, ending in a strangled cry as he dissolved into tears. The cold barrel of the gun came to press against his forehead as sobs wracked through his shoulders, making him shake. It was official, he’d lost them. He’d seen it coming, and it still did nothing for the cool pain that snaked around his spinal cord and squeezed.

He’d hit rock bottom.

As the sobs calmed to hitching breaths, he wiped his wet eyes with his free hand. The world tilted and moved around him, pulling him, pushing him into sweet nothing. But he couldn’t pull the trigger. Suicide was the coward’s way out, that was what John had always said. He looked through blurry eyes at the bottles around his feet and kicked one as he uncocked the gun and tossed it to the carpet. He wasn’t a coward.

Dean’s gaze flicked to his phone and the crumpled receipt on his nightstand, both lying next to the glowing numbers on the alarm. 1:29. Brain slick with alcohol, Dean picked up his phone and the receipt, typing in the number and sending a text just before lying down and falling asleep.

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
 _1:29 A 5/3/16_  
“Why?”


	6. Personal

The alarm blared, pulling Dean from his drunken sleep. He groaned, one arm flinging from where he was sprawled under the covers to hit the nightstand, knock an empty bottle down, and smack his phone before finally landing on the offending appliance and cutting Kansas off. It was a dream, that’s what it was. Dean just had to wake up and go to work, he’d apologize to Lisa, he’d talk to Ben about his temper, make things right.

He just had to wake up.

Slowly, Dean pulled dry, sticky lids open and looked around blearily. Pain lanced through his head, making him squeeze his eyes shut, as light crashed in around him. He rolled over and pushed himself up, stomach flipping greasily and squeezing. His jaw muscles tightened and he started salivating.

He ignored the pain that shot through his brain once again as he pushed himself up and darted for the bathroom, completely missing the toilet and landing over the lip of the tub as his stomach purged itself of green bile, alcohol, and the soda he’d used as chaser at first. Of course, after he’d drank enough, he didn’t need chaser anymore. He heaved and spat, grimacing at the vile taste of vomit coating his mouth. After another dry heave, he groaned and rested his forehead on the cool ceramic, arms draped over his head as he breathed deliberately.

In and out.

After another fifteen minutes, Dean managed to pull himself up to the sink, rinse his mouth and brush his teeth. He didn’t gel his hair, he was sure there was still some in there from the day prior due to his lack of shower. He pulled out the bottle of Tylenol from the cabinet and dry swallowed six pills before shaking his head and letting out a long breath. He didn’t look at himself in the mirror, didn’t want to see the disheveled, broken down and beaten Dean that he was.

So, he dressed in jeans and a gray Henley, because he was the boss. He knew he shouldn’t, but he was so far from caring. He slipped on socks and shoes and toed his way through the discarded liquor bottles to snag his phone from the bedside table, frowning down as the light in the upper right hand corner blinked urgently at him that he had a message.

Who the hell would message _him_?

Quickly, he unlocked the phone, his brows furrowing further in confusion at the text from the unknown number, responding to his message that he had sent just six hours ago and had no recollection of.

_SMS Message from 555-9576_  
6:57A 5/3/16  
“Why what? Who is this?”

Dean blinked several times, scanning the number before remembering where he’d seen it before. He looked at the paper on the floor beside his nightstand, the numbers that matched the text glaring up at him, judging him for his desperation. Dean shook his head and slipped the phone in his pocket, leaving the house and mentally chiding himself for his weakness. Really? He’d texted a stranger he’d given a blow job to in a gay bar. He didn’t even know what ‘why’ meant. _Why did you give me your number? Why did my family leave me? Why is my life falling apart? Why can’t I handle it?_ In his drunken stupor, it could’ve been any number of things.

He ignored the disaster area that was his house and headed to the garage, slipping in his Porsche and driving to work. He needed to call Lisa, he needed to at least be allowed to see Ben, although he had no legal standing. Dean sighed, stepping out of the car once he’d reached the parking garage and getting in the elevator. As it rose to the top floor of the skyscraper, he pulled out his phone and toyed with it. In the end, curiosity and loneliness won – although he would never in a million years admit that he needed a friend.

_SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:05 A 5/3/16  
“Why did you give me your number? I’m the guy from Drachma.”

Dean sent the message and shook his head, slipping his phone away once again. Weak. He was weak and desperate, texting a total stranger and hoping for a glimmer of kindness. The shiny chrome doors slid open and Dean stepped onto the plush cream carpet of the Tritech lobby, jade gaze immediately flicking to the receptionist and raising a brow as he stuffed his phone back in his pocket. Christian blinked a few times, sapphire scrutiny crawling over Dean’s choice of attire.

“Good morning, Mr. Winchester.” The secretary said pleasantly, if a little guarded. “I have your coffee for you, as usual.” He motioned to the black mug and Dean nodded, stepping forward and picking up the mug. He took a long breath and drank from the hot, bitter contents, straightening up and building his wall. He put weak Dean Winchester away and met Christian’s eyes, raising a brow and pulling the drink from his lips.

“What?” He gruffed.

“What happened to your knuckles?” Christian raised one hand and pointed to Dean’s, holding the mug. Dean furrowed his brows, switching his cup to his free hand and looking over the back of the cut, bloodied knuckles and sighing. Right. As if on cue, his hand started to hurt and Dean shook his head.

“Hold all calls for me, Christian. If I have any meetings, cancel or reschedule. Got it?” Dean changed the subject immediately. He didn’t mean to sound tart or harsh, but his head was still throbbing, his life was flipped upside down, and he was still trying desperately to stomach the coffee. Could anyone particularly blame him?

Christian thinned his lips, brows going flat over his narrowed eyes in annoyance. “Yes, _sir._ And my name is _Castiel_.” He corrected and pulled out a little leather book with neat, scribbled writing inside. Dean figured that was where he kept all of Dean’s appointments.

Dean took another drink of coffee and headed into his office, shutting the door firmly behind him and promptly forgetting his assistant’s actual name. He drew the curtains across the wall of windows, blocking out the beautiful landscape and, more importantly, the sun, submerging himself in darkness. He sat down at his desk and turned on his computer when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He took a moment to grab a wetnap from his desk and clean up the dried blood on the backs of his hands before he pulled it out and unlocked it, reading the text therein.

_SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:13 A 5/3/16  
“Oh, hello. I thought it was fairly obvious, considering I told you why I gave you the number on the note itself.”

Dean raised a brow at the sarcastic tone, an unwilling half smile forming at his tired lips.

_SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:15 A 5/3/16  
“Yeah, but it’s still really fucking weird. How do you know I’m not some serial killer? Some computer whiz who can find out everything about you just from a number?”

Dean had just set his phone down when it buzzed again. He couldn’t deny it felt good to pretend to be normal. Just some random guy. Anonymous.

_SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:17 A 5/3/16  
“I assure you, I’m quite boring, and not rich enough for you to rob or steal my identity. If you are a serial killer, then I at least hope we have some pleasant conversation before you end my life.”

Dean’s brows hit his hairline. Was this guy serious? Dean shook his head and set his phone down, not quite knowing how to respond to that. The stranger seemed to be straight out of an old novel, but ‘pleasant conversation’ and ‘gratitude’ aside, he couldn’t deny that the short conversation had been… Almost relieving in a way. He could be comfortable in his skin, this guy wasn’t afraid of him for fear of losing his job, this guy wasn’t going to use him up for fifteen years then leave him feeling cold and unwanted. He didn’t know about his past like Charlie and Sam did. To him, Dean was just a guy who gave head in random bathrooms.

And Dean was surprisingly okay with that.

He worked for another half hour before his phone buzzed again, and he checked it, shaking his head and smiling softly at the text from the stranger.

_SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:42 A 5/3/16  
“That’s a generally accepted cue to start a pleasant conversation.”

_SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:43 A 5/3/16  
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that. I’m at work, so if you want to chat with a serial killer, my responses will be delayed. FYI.”

_SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:45 A 5/3/16  
“Oh, my apologies. Where do you work, if I might ask?”

_SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:50 A 5/3/16  
“You can ask. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

_SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:52 A 5/3/16  
"So, all personal questions are off-limits I suppose?"

_SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:53 A 5/3/16  
"Yeah, basically."

_SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:54 A 5/3/16  
"What if I were to ask what your favorite animal is? Would that be too personal?"

Dean chuckled softly in the darkness of his office and shook his head before setting down his phone and taking a long gulp of his coffee. Was it possible that this guy was just as lonely as he was? Or maybe just bored out of his wits. He finished the last of his coffee and hit the intercom button. "More coffee please... Chris." Because Christiel was too much for his hungover tongue. After a moment, the secretary pushed open the door, grabbed his coffee and left without a word.

_SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:58 A 5/3/16  
"Well, I guess not. But I gotta ask why the hell you'd care about my favorite animal?"

_SMS Message from 555-9576_  
9:00 A 5/3/16  
"Why not? I want to have a conversation, and personal questions are off limits."

Why was Dean even indulging this man? It's not as though they shared a kinship because he'd given him head in a bathroom.

_SMS Message to 555-9576_  
9:02 A 5/3/16  
"Alright, fine. I guess I'd have to say my favorite animal is the fox. You?"

_SMS Message from 555-9576_  
9:05 A 5/3/16  
"Definitely bees."

_SMS Message to 555-9576_  
9:07 A 5/3/16  
"Why a bee? That's a bug, not an animal... Guess it makes sense though."

_SMS Message from 555-9576_  
9:08 A 5/3/16  
"Because they're creators. They're good for the flowers and for humans and they're just wonderful to watch. Wait, why does it make sense?"

Dean's ears turned pink. He should really start thinking before texting. His receptionist opened the door and brought Dean his fresh coffee, slipping his phone in his pocket. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

Dean glanced up, setting his phone down. "Yeah, actually. I'm going to call Cain and try to meet with him again. When he gets here, send him right in, okay?" He didn't miss the way Chris perked up at the sound of Cain's name. He would've had to have been blind, but he didn't ask about it. He couldn't bring himself to really care.

"Of course, sir." Chris responded, voice gruff and warm.

Dean took another drink of his coffee and looked at his receptionist. "Well? What're you still doing here?" The receptionist looked at Dean with a thinly veiled glare before turning on his heel and leaving. Dean sighed and shook his head, running callused fingers over his forehead as he typed a response.

_SMS Message to 555-9576_  
9:16 A 5/3/16  
"Do you eat a lot of honey?"

_SMS Message from 555-9576_  
9:17 A 5/3/16  
"Not particularly. I like it in my tea, sometimes on my toast. Why?"

_SMS Message to 555-9576_  
9:19 A 5/3/16  
“Then you must be part bee, cuz your come definitely tasted like honey."

Dean traded his cell phone for the desk phone and called Cain, thankfully getting a second chance at the meeting at a golf course a few hours after.

"Bring your receptionist."

"What?" Dean asked, confused.

"Your receptionist, Castiel." Cain clarified, and Dean nearly face palmed at having gotten the name wrong time and time again. "Bring him. We'll need a caddy."

"Yeah, absolutely. I'll see you at one." With that, Dean hung up and scratched his neck. Why the hell...? He sighed and shook his head, not looking too far into it as he checked his phone again and chuckled.

_SMS Message from 555-9576_  
9:20 A 5/3/16  
"That's good to know. I think."

_SMS Message to 555-9576_  
9:51 A 5/3/16  
"Yeah, I'm sure your boyfriend or girlfriend appreciates that."

_SMS Message from 555-9576_  
9:55 A 5/3/16  
"They might, if I had one. Although, recently, I’ve been on a couple dates with a man. He’s quite interesting. What about you? Are you taken?"

Dean's stomach churned and he thought over the huge, four bedroom house, lying empty on the suburban cul-de-sac. He needed to move, he couldn't stay there, he'd go crazy.

_SMS Message to 555-9576_  
9:56 A 5/3/16  
"It's... complicated. And what did I say about personal questions?"

Dean set down his phone and turned to his computer, looking up a realtor and giving them a call. He could easily get a hundred thousand out of it. It didn't really matter, it wasn't about the money, it was about the memories.

He had to get away from the memories.


	7. Change

Wednesday evening, Dean was packing his things into a box and a duffel bag, surprised by how few things he actually had and cared for enough to bring with him. Tuesday had gone quickly; his texting with the mysterious stranger had halted after he'd left for golf, ignoring the response.

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
10:00 A 5/3/16  
"I know, but how will I know if you're interesting if you don't answer any personal questions?"

Dean had been surprised the day prior, not only by how good Cain was at golf, but how willing he was to sell his shop when he could gawk at Chris-Castiel as the latter bent over to put the tees in the earth. Dean couldn't deny he had a really nice ass, but Cain seemed to be more... open with his sexuality. Dean was reserved, and he would only allow himself sneak peeks at the receptionist, but Cain didn’t seem to mind openly looking. After golf, they’d adjourned to the clubhouse for lunch, where Dean managed to seal the deal. He shocked even himself with how easily he’d slipped into CEO Dean and smooth talked the man to selling. Afterwards, it was late enough that Dean let the secretary go. He went back to work, unwilling to go back to the dragon's den that was his home until he was too tired to even notice how alone he was.

His hands closed around his dad's old journal from when he'd traveled the country after Mary died, taking Sam and Dean with him. It was rough, moving from place to place, John leaving them for weeks at a time, but it was good too. It was good to see cities all over the United States, living in cars and motels. He had always felt like a pioneer of sorts, a pirate or a gypsy. Ever since John had died, he hadn’t looked through the journal, afraid that his perception of his childhood would crumple, for whatever reason. He glanced over as his phone beeped, signifying that he had a message and pulling him from his thoughts.

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
6:01 P 5/4/16  
"How's your day going?"

He and the stranger had only sparsely texted that morning at work, talking about the weather, of all things. Dean couldn't say he hadn't been hoping for a text, but he hadn't been planning on it. A half smile pulled the corner of his lips and the heat in his heart flared out. Someone wanted to know how his day went. It was a small token of camaraderie, of humanity, that he'd gone many years without.

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
6:02 P 5/4/16  
"Eh. Packing. You?"

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
6:05 P 5/4/16  
"Getting ready for a date. Our third one. What are you packing for?"

Dean felt a morsel of disgust crawl up his throat at the thought of someone happy and dating. Didn't they know they'd just get left alone and wanting? Dropped and discarded as if they were nothing more worthless and deadly than a cigarette butt.

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
6:09 P 5/4/16  
"Congrats on your date."

Dean paused, looking at the screen for a long moment before adding onto the text.

"Enjoy yourself."

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
6:10 P 5/4/16  
"Thank you. What are you packing for?"

Dean sighed.

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
6:11 P 5/4/16  
"Persistent much? I’m moving."

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
6:13 P 5/4/16  
"Not persistent, just curious. And moving is awful. I'm sorry."

Dean shook his head, not responding. He picked up his box and duffel and left the handsome house, walking along the cobblestone walkway along the front and over to the detached garage. He'd called a maid service to come in and clean the place out, including the putrid vomit still in the tub, and throw everything out so he could sell the place. He'd put the Porsche up for sale, noticing with dulled fascination that Lisa had taken her VW Beetle. The one he bought her when Tritech went big and he could afford something nice for her.

Dean threw his life, which could be boiled down to a single box, a handful of expensive suits, and a duffel bag, into the trunk of his beloved Impala before climbing in the driver's seat and keying the ignition. The rumble of his Baby’s engine was enough to soothe his frayed nerves and he ran his palm over the steering wheel affectionately.

She was reliable, welcoming, constant, in this crazy upside down and backwards world.

Dean pulled out of the driveway and onto the empty, suburban street. Houses in various shades of taupe with green, immaculate lawns and expensive cars sitting in the driveway flew past his window. He’d never really felt like he’d belonged in the neighborhood with the rich bitches born with a silver spoon up their ass. He’d worked hard to get where he was, taken risks. He was the epitome of the classic rags to riches tale.

He’d thought he’d be happy. He’d thought things would work once he and Lisa weren’t scraping by on tips from the Roadhouse and pipe dreams. Money didn’t buy happiness, he knew that now.

He was rarely happy, except when he was in his old muscle car with the windows rolled down, dressed in faded jeans and flannel, pretending like he didn’t have the world on his shoulders. Or when he was under the hood, tinkering and tightening, fixing things that didn’t need fixed just then, but might need it later on. The car made him happier than his wife did. So, no, he wasn’t surprised that Lisa had left, and he wasn’t all that upset.

As the black ’67 Impala turned onto the highway and sped up, Dean fished his phone from his pocket, dialing Lisa and bringing it to his ear. He listened to the ringing, his cold heart squeezing as anger and hopelessness resurfaced. She picked up on the fourth ring, the one right before voicemail.

“Dean, I don’t think-“

“Lisa,” he interrupted. “Just let me talk, okay?” Dean gruffed. He heard a sigh on the other end of the line.

“Alright, that’s fair. What do you want to talk about?”

“Ben.”

Lisa’s confusion was audible. “What about him?”

“You can’t just take him Lisa. You can’t just take him without-“ Dean cut himself off with a growl, speeding down the highway. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down before continuing. “He’s my son too.”

“He’s not.” Lisa voiced exactly what Dean was thinking and his hand tightened on the steering wheel.

“I have raised that boy and loved him as my own for _10 years_. You _can’t_ just take him and expect me to be okay with that!” He barked. The other line was silent for a few moments before Dean decided to continue. “Look, what we had… It’s gone. We drifted apart, and it’s been gone for a long time. I know we can’t fix it, but you can’t take Ben from me.” In a moment of weakness, he felt a single syllable slip between his lips, desperate and imploring. “ _Please._ ”

Dean swore he could hear the seconds ticking by as the silence stretched between them through the phone. He could practically hear her thinking it over, maybe trying to figure out a reason that it just wouldn’t work, maybe wondering why Dean would want to see the boy that signified the beginning of the end. He didn’t know. Then she sighed again, tired and worn as if exhausted by the conversation. “Yeah, okay. You’re right. Let me talk to Brady about it and we’ll see if we can figure out a schedule or something.”

Dean would’ve thanked God if he’d believed.

“Thank you,” he breathed. “Really, thank you Lisa.”

“Yeah. I’ll call you later, okay Dean?”

“Alright, bye.” It wasn’t the last time he would say good-bye to her, but it still wrenched in his gut and reverberated through his body. He was letting her go.

“Bye.” With that, the line went dead.

Dean didn’t let the niggling in his brain that the mysterious _man_ she’d left him for was Brady, of all people, bother him, he was too caught up in the rush of bittersweet happiness that had enveloped him at the promise of being able to see Ben every so often.

* * *

 

Motels were grungy. They smelled like cleaning solution with the undertones of urine and a faint mustiness. Dean was rich, he could’ve gone to The Mark hotel down by 77th and Madison. It would’ve been walking distance from Grand Central Park, plush with room service and surrounded by nightlife. In the end, however, Dean found himself at Days Motel on West 94th street. The whole damn thing looked like it was under construction, and it was across the street from a dry cleaner that had no idea clean wasn’t spelled ‘kleen’. It was sleazy, cheap, and desperately needed a new coat of paint, but it was comfortable. He supposed he’d ended up there because it reminded him of his childhood. It felt like he was going back to his roots. Re-defining and re-discovering who Dean Winchester was. He checked into room 128 for a month before bringing up his lone box, his duffel, and the suits from his car. The room was small, a single twin with a floral comforter and a suspicious stain sat across the room from a bubble tv. Along the far wall was the door to the small bathroom, a closet space, and a landscape painting of some kind of bridge over water.

Sighing softly to himself, Dean got unpacking. He hung his suits up, keeping the rest of his clothes, his laptop, and the box of bullets, in the duffel. From the box, he put the picture of him and Sam they took when Sam graduated from Stanford on the nightstand, alongside the picture of him, Sam, Mary, and John. It was the only picture he had of either of his parents, and it was well-worn from years of Dean folding it and opening it during long nights while Sam was sleeping. He left his own diploma inside the box, only having brought it for sentimental reasons. He set up his alarm clock next to the pictures and pulled open the drawer to the nightstand, exchanging the Bible therein for his Colt and John’s journal. He pulled out the towels from the box and hung them in the bathroom before placing his shower things inside the yellowed tub.

Dean took a deep breath, and he exhaled, the silence of the room pressing in only until he focused on the traffic from outside. He was alone, and that was fine. That had to be fine.

Dean moved and sat on the end of the bed, the springs creaking under his weight, and he pulled out his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, frowning. Bobby was in South Dakota for the week, visiting Jody and doing whatever it was that he did. Either way, he’d made it clear that he didn’t want to be bothered, Dean knew that. Charlie was probably LARPing with Dorothy somewhere. Sam was busy being married with a toddler. Surely, he wasn’t able to chat. Not to mention, the solid and strong Dean couldn’t call them and blubber. It wasn’t his nature. He dealt. Still, his thumb hovered over Sam’s name and he sighed, shaking his head. He wasn’t going to call him, and no way was he going to call one of his work associates, his underlings, to cure his insatiable desire for companionship.

That left one person.

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:36 P 5/4/16  
“Hope your date’s going well.”

Yeah, that was good. Dean slipped his phone into his pocket and carded a hand through his gel-stiff hair as he stood. He pat his hands in a random rhythm over his hips and looked around the small room. Finally, his stomach broke the silence, gurgling and empty. Without further ado, Dean left the room and walked down the street to the diner on the corner of 94th and Broadway. He knew himself well enough to be able to see into the future. He was going to spend a lot of time and money at that greasy spoon.


	8. Life

Dean watched his phone like a hawk, waiting, hoping, for a text back. He ate a burger and some fries, washed down with coffee as he observed the city through the window. As if to mirror his own mood, the clouds pulled over the darkness in a thick blanket. Thunder rumbled ominously just before thick drops of water crashed down to earth, flashing lightning across the sky and lighting up the bustling New York streets. People flitted about over the sidewalks, looking for refuge from the sudden storm that had engulfed the city. A few found it within the diner, their shirts and shorts dripping onto the linoleum. Dean sighed and pulled out his wallet, thumbing through the bills before dropping a twenty on the counter. He stood and left, stepping out into the rain.

The rain that could wash everything away.

He slipped his wallet away, hands in his pockets over his phone and wallet, keeping them safe. He'd have to pick up a mini fridge so he could keep a few things in the room. Beer and leftovers mostly, maybe some bottled water. He didn't trust the rust on the tap in the sink. That, however, was for another time. Just then, he wanted to get back.

Dean yawned, trudging through the puddles on the sidewalk, rain pattering around him, soaking him to his core. It was warm rain, so it wasn't as bad as it could've been, and it was cleansing. He kicked an errant clump of wet paper, shoulders hunched as he walked down 94th back to the motel. He left wet splotches of carpet in his wake in the lobby as he walked to his room, stripped, and got in the shower to finish the cleanse the rain had begun.

Dean slept that between scratchy sheets on a lumpy mattress, one spring digging right between his shoulder blades. It wasn’t his usual feather comforter and queen bed, but it felt more like home than his house did. Well, he didn't so much sleep as he did doze for the six hours until his alarm went off.

Dean got up and dressed in a suit, not bothering with his hair or cologne. On his way out to his car, he checked his phone.

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
6:01A 5/5/16  
"It went well."

  
That was it. Three words from the mysterious man. Dean raised a brow and responded before pulling into traffic and heading into work.

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
7:49A 5/5/16  
"Sure sounds like it."

Dean checked his phone as he stepped into the elevator at Tritech, huffing out a chuckle.

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
7:52A 5/5/16  
"Why does that seem like that was meant to be sarcastic?"

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
7:53A 5/5/16  
"Because it was."

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
7:55A 5/5/16  
"I see. Well, my apologies if my date was too personal to talk about."

Dean sent the next text as the doors slid open, revealing the lobby.

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
7:55A 5/5/16  
"Alright, alright. Don't get all defensive."

"Good morning, Mr. Winchester. I have your coffee right here." The receptionist pointed to the black mug and Dean picked it up gratefully.

"Hey Chrrrr-" Dean held the 'r' as he tried to remember the damn elusive name. "Christiel?"

"Castiel." The receptionist corrected. Again.

Dean hummed and took a sip of his coffee. "Right, thanks." He offered a wry smile to the man behind the desk. "I'll get it one of these times."

"With all due respect, I highly doubt that, sir."

Dean raised a brow, bringing the mug to his lips and drinking. The receptionist had a point, it had been two and a half years and, if Dean thought hard enough, he could remember calling him Clarence, Christian, Carter, Crispin, Cameron, and Chase. None of them had been right. "I'll get it this time." He assured with a soft smirk. His blunt nails tapped over the glossy side of the ceramic mug in an unfamiliar rhythm, and he looked away from the receptionist, from the piercing blue gaze that seemed to bore right into his lonely soul, his very existence, cracking him open and looking at the goopy innards. Dean cleared his throat and made himself look back. “Appointments? Messages?"

The receptionist nodded and prattled off the list before Dean nodded and headed into his office.

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:17A 5/5/16  
"Not defensive... How's work?"

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:18A 5/5/16  
"Not awful. You?"

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:21A 5/5/16  
"Same. Normally jackass boss seems a little more willing to be less jackassy."

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:22A 5/5/16  
"Oh yeah? What's he do?"

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:25A 5/5/16  
"He can never remember my name for one. He's a pig who has sex in his office for another. Really, who does that? It's disgusting. Just kind of a general ‘better than you’ douche."

Dean's brow raised and he chuckled softly.

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:27A 5/5/16  
"First, coming from a boss-type, sometimes it's hard to remember everyone's names. Second, if you haven't tried office sex, you should. It's crazy good. As far as the douche thing goes, some guys are just like that."

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:29A 5/5/16  
"I don't think I'll be trying it anytime soon, but thanks. As for the douche thing, yeah some guys are like that, but they can try harder to not be. It's good to know you're a boss-type. Personal, even."

Dean froze, staring at his phone. It was true. It was a personal detail he'd just let slip, not thinking anything about it, and yet, fire wasn't raining from the heavens, the world didn't open beneath his feet and swallow him whole. He was okay. It even kind of felt good to let a little bit of himself go. To let his guard slip a fraction.

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:31A 5/5/16  
"Yeah, I am."

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:32A 5/5/16  
"So, what's a boss-type doing on the giving end of a glory hole on a Thursday?"

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:33A 5/5/16  
"Oh y'know. Getting pictures of stranger's dicks for the creepy collage on my wall. What else?"

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:35A 5/5/16  
"Seriously?"

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:36A 5/5/16  
"No, not seriously. I go every Thursday."

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:37A 5/5/16  
"But why?"

  
Dean sighed softly. It was extremely personal, but his thumbs seemed to have a mind of their own as they started typing. Besides, he reasoned, this guy had no idea who he was, and considering they’d met in a glory hole, well he could probably figure out what Dean had been so afraid to voice to many people.

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:39A 5/5/16  
"Because I'm bi, but nobody really knows except my brother and best friend."

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:41A 5/5/16  
"Do you have a big family?"

Dean blinked a few times, regaining composure as his thumbs hovered over the keyboard. That was it? He just admitted to a stranger that he wasn't wholly straight and all he got was a question about his family? Did this man just... Not care? Of course, he realized that he was being irrational. _He’d met the man in a glory hole for crying out loud._ Still, it was strangely relieving, not that he had been apprehensive, but he relaxed, regardless.

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:44A 5/5/16  
"No, it's just me, my brother, and my uncle now. Do you?"

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:45A 5/5/16  
"No. I have a twin brother and my mom. How old are you and your brother?"

 _SMS Message to 555-9576_  
8:46A 5/5/16  
"Man, all about the personal shit, huh? I'm 36, he's 32. You?"

 _SMS Message from 555-9576_  
8:47A 5/5/16  
"Just turned 31 last month. My brother obviously did as well."

Dean looked at his phone for a moment. What was he even doing? He was essentially blowing off work to text this guy. This random guy he’d blown in a bathroom. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get over that, just how easy conversation had come, almost like he was normal. He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, adding the number to his contacts, if only because he’d found someone to talk to, and he knew he needed that. He needed someone who wouldn’t judge him, or try to get at his money or into his pants. Dean Winchester was a proud, strong man, but after ten years of misery, even he could admit that he needed a modicum of normalcy.

 _SMS Message to Honey_  
8:56A 5/5/16  
“Now, that’s got me wondering. What the hell were you doing in the receiving stall of a glory hole?”

Sure, ‘Honey’ may have been weird, but he didn’t want a contact set in his phone as ‘Anonymous’ or ‘Glory Hole’. Besides, the guy _did_ taste like honey.

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
8:59A 5/5/16  
“I was curious. I don’t go to clubs very often, and I had been drinking. Seemed like a good idea.”

 _SMS Message to Honey_  
9:01A 5/5/16  
“Did it turn out to be a good idea?

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
9:02A 5/5/16  
“I enjoyed myself. You seemed to be doing the same.”

Dean’s ears heated up and he set the phone down, shaking his head as he stood from his desk. It was true, he had. He’d given plenty of blowjobs over the years and he rarely masturbated, much less climaxed, during a single one. Usually, he’d do three or four before orgasm, and that was on a good day. He sighed and ran a hand through his flat, un-gelled hair before picking up his Bluetooth headset. Work, he needed to work, the stranger could wait.

Dean stuck the earpiece in his ear and got the call to his Director of Sales, Jo Harvelle, ready before setting up his office golf set. He had to go over numbers and reviews and all that jazz that he’d been putting off. The good news was he and Jo had a rapport, and they were close after working at the Roadhouse together. Once Tritech went big, Dean got Jo a job with him and paid for the repairs on the old restaurant down in Nebraska. Still, as much as he’d begged, Ash wouldn’t take a job in New York, and Ellen didn’t want to relocate. He greeted Jo as she picked up, thinking that he really ought to go visit some time before Ellen threatens to lop his head off. 

* * *

 

Dean had considered not going to Drachma that night, he’d thought maybe he just wanted to go to the motel, order pizza and watch TV. It turned out, however, that habit was everything, and before he even knew what he was doing, he was dressed in a brown flannel over dark jeans and motorcycle boots. He smiled to himself in the mirror, practicing and perfecting. It was ragged, worn, and felt like it was forced from a mold, like an ice cube popped from a tray. He sighed and bent over the sink, turning on the tap and splashing some cold water over his face before drying off with his towel from home. No, not home. His old house. In the end, he decided he’d rather be at the club than all by himself in the cramped room, counting the spider web cracks in the ceiling.

 _SMS Message to Honey_  
7:55 5/5/16  
“You going to the club tonight?”

Dean went to the parking lot and slipped into his beloved Impala before sending the text, mildly apprehensive. He didn’t read the response until he’d parked outside the familiar building downtown.

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
8:01P 5/5/16  
“I hadn’t planned on it. I was actually planning on watching some Netflix and curling up on the sofa. I’m in the middle of binge watching The Wire. Why?”

Dean strode into the building and up to the bar, ordering his usual double whiskey and heading into the bathroom. He moved to the usual stall and sat on the toilet, sipping his whiskey. Unfortunately, he wasn’t really feeling it. He wasn’t as excited as he usually was, he hadn’t even bothered wearing the sunglasses. Maybe it was because it wasn’t so sneaky anymore. Lisa hadn’t known about his tendencies, and he’d never planned on telling her, but now, without his wife – ex-wife – to sneak around, he just felt like some lonely asshole in a glory hole.

 _SMS Message to Honey_  
8:15 5/5/16  
“Just curious I guess.”

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
8:17 5/5/16  
“Are you there?”

 _SMS Message to Honey_  
8:18 5/5/16  
“Yep, it’s Thursday.”

Dean looked up as a pink, fleshy pole poked through the hole. He hadn’t even paid enough attention to hear the shuffling of feet through the bathroom, or even the door open and close. He shook his head and set his phone down, ignoring as it rattled vibration against the porcelain and sliding to his knees in front of the partition.

It was quick and sloppy, the guy with the needle dick practically came as soon as Dean wrapped his lips around it. He rolled his eyes and spat into the toilet, swishing and washing the taste down with whiskey. He wondered what the hell half these guys ate that made their jizz taste like Hydrogen Peroxide of all things. Ick. Dean groaned, sitting back on the toilet and picking up his phone.

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
8:19 5/5/16  
“Alright, I’ll come down. Just let me get dressed.”

Dean swore that his heart stopped just before excitement flooded through his veins. And what a strange feeling it was, being excited to suck off an acquaintance – because he knew guy liked bees, The Wire, and sometimes honey; that he had a twin brother and was dating a guy, which made him either straight or gay, which made him more than just some stranger. He’d given some of himself, too, more than he gave most. That he was bi, he had a brother, he was a boss-type, and he was pushing forty. Maybe that’s what had Dean texting back quickly, his lips quirked in a smirk as life rushed within his veins, making him feel normal again, if only for a moment.

 _SMS Message to Honey_  
8:38 5/5/16  
“Cool.”


	9. Opening Up

Ten minutes had passed. At one point, a figure had walked into the bathroom, into the adjacent stall, and gotten himself ready before Dean told him to scram. Needless to say, the stranger with the white tennis shoes and shorts - Dean assumed because he could see the dark hair on his calves - had left, confused. Dean shifted in the stall, snapping up his phone and checking the time, again.

Fifteen minutes had passed.

Dean silently chided himself for the childish excitement and anticipation. He drummed his fingers on his knees impatiently, blowing out a breath when the door opened. He didn't even realize he hadn't breathed in until dark jeans and work boots appeared beneath the divider, turning to face him and stopping.

"Uh.. hello."

It was the same voice from before. The same one that made him think of stormy seas and something other-worldly. Where had he heard it before? He swore he'd heard it _somewhere_. He shook his head, swallowed hard, and nodded, although the other man couldn't see it.

"Hey," Dean rasped, staring through the hole and straight at the seam of the man's pants. "You wanna go ahead and get ready?" He motioned with one hand to the hole, though he knew the other wouldn't be able to see.

"Oh, right. Yes." Dean listened to the zipper and the shuffling of stroking before the familiar member poked through the hole.

A slow grin spread across Dean's face and he slid to his knees in front of the partition. He didn't start with his hand this time, he just went all in, wrapping his lips around the tip and sinking to the base. The man let out a soft, surprised moan that reverberated down to Dean's very core and made his bones vibrate. He couldn't help it, he mimicked the moan as he pulled back, running his tongue in a hard line along the underside. His right hand moved over his own curious arousal in his pants and he slowly ran his palm down the bulge in his dark jeans.

"Ah.. Fuck." The man whispered and damn if that wasn't one of the sexiest sounds Dean had ever heard. Quickly, he popped the button of his jeans and pulled down the zipper, releasing himself into the air. He pulled his head back and ran his tongue over the head in quick, excited circles as he started stroking himself.

It was sloppy that time, fast and heavy with saliva. He took the hard member into the back of his throat and bobbed his head there, imagining hands in his hair, fucking into his mouth. His eyes watered and he moved his hand faster. The man bucked forward and he was done, moaning loudly and spilling white into his palm before he'd even gotten the guy off. Pathetic. He didn't care that he made soft whimper sounds as he continued brushing the pad of his thumb over the oversensitive head, shooting electricity through him. He moved his head, licking up the slit at the thick, salty precome that had settled there and the man groaned through heavy breaths. Dean took him all, over and over, his jaw muscle starting to burn as goosebumps erupted over his skin from the sounds the man was making. Just as he thought he might not be able to get this guy off, he came, spurting yoke-y warm liquid into Dean's mouth and he swallowed.

God, like a dirty fucking whore he swallowed it all, and he _liked_ it.

The man's hips bucked and Dean slowly drew his head back before moving back in, working him through his orgasm. He popped off and stood, cleaning himself up with a long winded sigh, his tongue running over the roof of his mouth to lap up any remnants of honey before he swallowed it down with alcohol.

"So, I can't pay you, and we've already exchanged numbers..." The man said and Dean raised a brow, turning at the sound of the toilet lid closing and the shuffle of clothing. "But I'd like to do something, so I'm here if you want to talk."

Dean scoffed, throwing the spent wad of toilet paper into the toilet and closing the lid before stuffing himself back into his jeans and fastening them. He sat as well, shaking his head. "Listen, I appreciate it and all, but I'm good." He took another drink of whiskey, baring his teeth at the burn. It was almost a clinical silence that fell over the bathroom in the aftermath of his words. He could vaguely hear thrumming of the bass in the club, but the buzzing of fluorescent lights was louder. "Besides, aren't you dating someone? Why are you even here?" He asked, if only for noise to fill the silence.

"He sees others besides me. I figure I can do the same."

"Oh man, I'm sorry." Dean sighed and leaned his elbows on his knees. "That sucks."

"It's not your fault. He's older and quite rich, he likes his playthings. That's a trademark of millionaires, isn't it?"

Dean chuckled and shook head, resting his chin over his chest. "Not really."

A sigh from the other stall. "So, do you have any hobbies?"

Dean snorted a laugh, shaking his head again; from relationships to hobbies was an odd jump. "Yeah. Yeah I do. I work on my car." Dean shrugged and took another drink. "Sometimes I shoot pool. You?"

"I watch Netflix, but I suppose that's not a hobby." The man chuckled, the sound as smooth as fine chocolate. "I also love to paint. I've been able to sell a few, but the phrase 'starving artist' is true. I couldn't support myself, so I got my job where I am now. I still paint, just not all the time anymore."

Dean nodded slowly. "What do you paint?"

"Landscapes, people, flowers and bees."

Dean chuckled. "That's right, the bee man."

"Yes, the bee man." Dean could've sworn he heard the lilt of a smile in the man's voice. "I prefer realism. Abstract and surrealism are fine, but it takes more time and effort to make a painting look like you're looking at a picture. It takes more heart."

Dean smiled warmly at the bright white tiles. Yeah, he could see that. He blinked several times, letting the silence wash over him in waves, the buzzing from the lights and the soft breathing from the other stall. “Man, I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing.” He admitted to the floor, breaking the silence between them once again.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean here, talking to you instead of telling you to screw off.” Dean rested his head in his hands, palms grinding into his eyes and fingers splayed in the soft tufts of dark blond hair atop his head. “Why?”

“Oscar Wilde once said ‘Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth.’ Maybe you need someone to hear your truth, someone who doesn’t know you.” The man reasoned.

Dean let out a strange choked sound, somewhere between a bitter chuckle and a groan. But he was right. The stranger with the honey come who liked bees and painting and had a twin brother was right. Dean needed someone to hear his truth. “She fucking left me, man.” His voice was gruff, tired and overwhelmed. “Fifteen years and all she had to say was ‘I’m sorry’.” He ground his palms harder into his eyes, scoffing when they came away wet. The white tiles swam with stars from how hard he’d pressed, but soon came into focus and he looked at his hands, at the gold band glinting in the lights. “I mean, we were unhappy, and it’s not like it was gonna work out. Damn it, I just…” He sighed and slipped the ring from his finger, watching as it blurred from the tears accumulating in his eyes. “I didn’t think she’d actually leave, ya know? She had her boyfriends, I had my fuckbuddies… In some kind of twisted, screwy way, it worked for us. Then it didn’t.”

The silence that followed the disgusting word vomit was palpable. Dean could hear his heart pumping under his ribs, blood rushing in his ears as soft tears slipped down his cheeks and splattered on the blank white tiles. There it was, he’d torn apart his chest and lain his heart on the bathroom floor for anybody to examine, look at him for what he really was.

Some lonely, heartbroken bastard in a glory hole on a Thursday.

“Do you still love her?” The deep voice split the silence and Dean felt his throat squeeze as he cleared it, quickly wiping away the trails of sadness his tear ducts had stained his cheeks with.

“I love who she used to be, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop. I don’t think I can.” He sighed softly and straightened to take a drink of whiskey. “Don’ matter though. I don’t want her back or anything.” His gold wedding band, sandwiched between his palm and the glass, sat heavy like a brick. He took another sip and set down the whiskey, turning the ring to read the engraving. ‘Forever and always, I do’. He sighed and shook his head, looking up at the far wall.

“It’s cliché, but it was probably for the best. I may not know you all that well, and I don’t know her, but if you were both unhappy it was only time until one of you left.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“That, of course, doesn’t make the pain of separation any easier. Give yourself time, friend, and you’ll be okay.”

Dean smiled softly and huffed a breath through his nose before sniffling. “Yeah, thanks bathroom therapist.” He snarked and shook his head. “You want me to tell you about my childhood too? I can tell you right now that wasn’t all sunshine and roses, but it was fine, and my relationship was my dad was good too.” He sighed, realizing he was being an ass to the only person he’d opened up to in, damn, three years? Yeah, must’ve been, because that was when Jess and Sam had Mary and Charlie got with Dorothy. He hadn’t wanted to bother them with his problems because his were the same old problems and they had new things to deal with.

“Only if you want to.” The stranger responded slowly, uncertainly.

“Yeah, no thanks. It was a joke, buddy.” Dean sighed and shook his head. And then his phone rang, Lisa’s name glaring at him on the caller ID. “Sorry, I gotta take this.”

“That’s okay, I should probably go. I believe Netflix misses me.”

Dean chuckled softly, thumb hovering over the green call button. “It was good talking to you.” He said honestly.

“Of course, and I hope we can text more.”

“Yeah, course.” Dean brought the phone to his ear, answering it. “Hey Lisa.” He watched as work boots walked from the adjacent stall and back into the club.

“Hi. So, I talked to Brady and Ben, and we all think it’s fine if you take him every other weekend.”

Dean sighed in relief. “Thank god. Thank you Lisa, really. Can I start this weekend? I wanted to take him to a Yankees game on Saturday.” It was the truth, it was what he’d gone to ask Ben that Monday. But, as he thought about it, maybe having him the whole weekend wouldn’t be the best idea. He’d already made a home out of his room, and didn’t really want to switch to a double when Ben would only be with him every other weekend. “And how about, instead of all weekend every other weekend, I could just have him all day every Saturday?”

There was a pause and some muted words. “Yeah, that sounds fine. Or some Sundays if you want to switch it up.”

Dean grinned, heart flipping. “Thanks Lis. You really didn’t have to do this.” Another thought came to mind. “Did you tell him?” _that I’m not actually his father._ The unspoken words hung in the line between them, but Lisa understood what he meant.

“No, I haven’t.” Another pause. “And he really misses his dad. He misses you, Dean.”

Dean could’ve started crying again, right there, but he didn’t. He held it together for a brief moment, long enough to respond. “Tell him I miss him too, but I’ll see him on Saturday.”

“I’ll send you Brady’s address tomorrow.”

“Alright, thanks.”

“You’re welcome Dean. I meant it, you know, when I told you you were a good dad.” With that, the line went dead and Dean shuddered a sigh, closing his eyes and folding his hands over the phone as he rested it against his forehead. Something went right, finally. He pulled the phone away as he received a message.

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
10:32 5/5/16  
“Glad I left. Apparently I’m needed elsewhere. I suppose The Wire will have to wait.”

_SMS Message to Honey  
10:33 5/5/16_

“Boyfriend? Don’t tell him about me. I don’t really feel like beating anyone up. And thanks again. I think I needed that.”

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
10:34 5/5/16  
“Of course. I’m always here for you.”

Dean smiled warmly at his phone and responded before heading through the club and back to the motel, the weight on his shoulders feeling lighter than it had in months. Once back in his room after his shower, under the scratchy blankets and over the lumpy mattress, he squinted in the bright light of his phone and responded before going to bed.

 _SMS Message to Honey_  
11:49 5/5/16  
“Yeah, you too.”


	10. Yankees

* * *

Dean woke up just after ten on Saturday, which was the time he usually woke up on the weekends so he could do some work without missing out on rest. Today, however, was not a day that he'd be working. A renewed spring in his step, he stood from the worn mattress and stretched, his tense muscles thanking him by sending sweet release over his tired body. He hadn't been sleeping well, but when it came to old mattresses that smelled musty and dug between his shoulder blades, was it really his fault?

Dean showered and dressed in a ratty AC/DC shirt and jeans before pulling on his boots and gelling his hair. Yeah, his heart sank at the prospect of seeing Lisa, but he was going to a Yankees game with Ben, what was better than that? As he left, he made a mental note to buy a new bed set, pillows, and a mini fridge on his way back. He checked his phone as he walked out to his car.

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
_9:21A 5/7/16_  
"How are you feeling? We didn't talk much yesterday."

It was true, the day before Dean had been pretty busy with work. With the work he'd been putting off to text the mysterious man, to be more specific.

 _SMS Message to Honey_  
_11:02A 5/7/16_  
“Actually, I'm feeling great. Going to take my son to a Yankees game."

Dean sent the text and started driving. It was the strangest thing, that he was suddenly so attached to the boy, calling him his. It made sense, in a way, given that absence made the heart grow fonder, and having Ben forcefully taken from him was about the worst since he couldn't legally do anything to keep him. After all, he wasn't actually his. He mulled over the missed chances with Ben as he grew; times when he'd been too caught up in his own work and the problems with his marriage, never thinking for a second that that time wouldn't be able to be made up in the years to come. He sighed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and pulling up in front of the cottage on the outskirts of town. He checked his phone on his way up to ring the doorbell.

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
_11:03A 5/7/16_  
"Oh, you have a son?"

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
_11:41A 5/7/16_  
"Yeah, he's ten. Well, he's not mine, he's my ex-wife’s, but I raised him ya know? That's gotta count for something."

Lisa answered the door, wearing black yoga pants and a pink sweater, a warm smile over her lips. Dean couldn't deny that she looked happier, more full of life, than she ever had with him, even when things were good between them.

"Hey." She said quietly and Dean's heart caught in his throat. He swallowed it down so he could speak.

"Hey, Lisa. Is he ready?” Dean shifted on his feet, phone buzzing in his hand before he stuffed it away in his pocket.

"Yeah, just about. Listen, I want to talk to you about the divorce." Dean nodded slowly, unable to really say anything as she stepped around the door, toes over the metal that divided the house from the porch. He caught a whiff of expensive perfume, nothing she’d ever worn before. "I'm going to file for divorce on Monday. If I file, then you shouldn't have to pay alimony or anything. I'm not going to ask for child support because Ben and I will be fine, and I'm not going to mention the infidelity on either side. Basically, we won't have to take this to court unless _you_ want to. It can be civil." Dean blew out a breath he didn't know he was holding and nodded again, more weight being lifted from his shoulders despite the sinking in his gut. Lisa leaned against the door jamb, dark hair casually rolling over her shoulder as she awaited his reply.

"Yeah." Dean's voice was raspy, clogged, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah, that sounds great, actually." He ran his hand over the back of his neck and shuffled his feet in the universal sign for discomfort before nodding. "Yeah."

Lisa paused for a moment before speaking again. "I know this is difficult, and I really am sorry for leaving like I did. I could've done it better, but I didn't want you to talk me out of it, and you know you would've." She sighed, folding thin, but strong, arms over her full chest. "I'll try to make it as easy on you as possible."

Dean blinked the tears away, silently cursing them as he took in a deep breath and looked up into dark brown eyes. "Yeah, you could've done different, but you didn't." He shrugged. "Just.. Send the papers to my office and I'll sign them when I get them, alright?" In that moment, Dean realized how much easier the whole thing would've been if he hated the woman across the threshold. How much less it would hurt if anger would engulf the pain and just leave him to either drink it away or punch it out at the gym. It would've even helped if Lisa was being a bitch, but she never was, never had been. Even as they danced over the shattered remains of their marriage she was just as sweet as she'd always been and that, more than anything, was what hurt.

"I guess I'll go get Ben then." Lisa picked up on the note of pain in Dean's voice and straightened from the door. "I'll send the papers when I get them, and I really am sorry." She sighed and disappeared, leaving the door open. Once she'd left, Dean pulled out his phone and read the response.

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
_11:44A 5/7/16_  
"It counts for everything. He's not yours and yet you still stepped up to the plate. That's honorable in more ways than one."

Dean smiled, still reeling from the torrent of emotion that followed his exchange with Lisa, but feeling a bit better, a bit lighter, from the response from the stranger.

 _SMS Message to Honey_  
_11:45A 5/7/16_  
"Thanks man, I really needed to hear that."

Dean tucked his phone away, wondering how the man who knew so little about him knew exactly what to say when he needed to hear it. He knew what to say on Thursday to get him to open up, spilling his grief all over the floor in a sticky mess, and what to say right then to lift him from the dumps where he'd been thrown.

"Dad!" Dean was pulled back to the present as Ben rounded a corner, sporting a red Yankees ball cap and a Call of Duty shirt, and ran straight for him. He barely had enough time to ready himself before the boy launched himself into his arms and nearly toppled them both over backward and onto the pavement. Dean grunted and hugged the kid, grinning into small shoulders.

"Hey kiddo, how've ya been? Your mom treating you okay? She feeding you good enough?"  
Ben giggled and nodded, pulling back to look at Dean. The last time the boy had been so excited was when he was five and Dean had had to take a trip to Ontario to discuss expanding the company. He'd come back two weeks later and had actually been tackled to the ground. "Yeah, it's okay. Brady can cook pretty good." Dean clenched his jaw at the name, but didn't drop the smile as he set the kid down and looked at Lisa.

"Have him back by nine, okay? That's his bed time."

Dean barely kept from scoffing. He knew what time Ben went to bed. "Yeah, course." He nodded to Lisa and turned around, but his movements were halted by a soft hand on his shoulder. He turned to look back at Lisa, when she leaned forward and gently pressed her plump lips to his cheek before pulling away.

The bottom of Dean’s stomach dropped out and nausea ripped through him. He pat Ben’s back, motioning him to the car before levelling a glare at Lisa and leaning forward. “Don’t _ever_ do that again.” He growled, quietly enough that the boy couldn’t hear. Lisa’s eyes went wide in surprise.

“I didn’t think-”

“No, you didn’t. Don’t _fucking_ kiss me. Ever. Got it?”

Lisa blinked a few times and nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Dean shuddered a breath and turned away, following Ben down the cobblestone and to his Impala. He felt sick as wave after wave of pain and loss rolled beneath his skin. "You ready to go watch baseball?"

"Eh..." Ben replied as Dean opened the back door to let him in. "I brought Pokemon though, so I'll probably play that."

Dean gave a strained chuckle and shut the door after him, slipping into the driver's seat and starting the car, pausing for a moment to pull out his phone.

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
_11:46A 5/7/16_  
“I told you before. I’m here just about any time you need me.”

He sighed out at the response and swallowed, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as he tried to think of what to say. ‘Help, I need you’? Weak, pitiful, and he wasn’t that man.

 _SMS Message to Honey_  
_12:01P 5/7/16_  
“What’s your biggest fear?”

 

* * *

 

They got to the stadium about half an hour before the game was scheduled to start and got their concessions - soda and a hot dog for Ben and beer and nachos for Dean - before heading up to the box. There was generally food there, fancy food for fancy people, but Dean liked the other concessions better. They were greasy and sat in his stomach and made him think of growing up on macaroni and cheese and diners, if they had the money. It was the little things that made him feel like himself. He and Ben found a comfy red couch right in front of the giant window right over home plate and sat, balancing their food and drinks before Dean pulled over a little table for them to use. After getting situated, he checked his phone again.

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
_12:02P 5/7/16_  
“Being stuck at the same dead-end job for the rest of my life. Why? What’s your biggest fear?”

 _SMS Message to Honey_  
_12:12P 5/7/16_  
“Just.. Curious I guess. Needed something to get my mind off some things.”

Dean contemplated what to say for a moment before adding his next line.

“Planes, man. I fucking hate planes.”

The box slowly filled up in the minutes leading up to the star spangled banner, although Dean and Ben's couch seemed to be low on the list of places people wanted to sit. Dean swallowed the last dregs of his watery beer and stood, glancing down at Ben. "I'm gonna go get some more, okay?"

Ben, who was deeply enthralled in his video game, nodded without looking up. Dean couldn't resist ruffling his hair as he left, which meant Ben did look up, but only to glare at him as he chuckled, feeling a bit better.

He skirted through the upper class society who'd wanted to get some fresh air without leaving their lavish lifestyle behind, heading back the way he'd come when a familiar figure, tall with dark salt and pepper hair and an air of arrogance and sex, danced into his peripheral vision and he turned his head. "I didn't know you were a Yankees fan!" Dean exclaimed, heading over to Cain and sticking out his hand, carefully placing the practiced smile on his face.

"I'm actually not." Cain corrected, accepting Dean's hand and shaking it firmly before dropping his arm to his side. "My date is."

And only as Cain motioned to the man next to him, a few inches shorter than Dean himself, with dark hair, shocking blue eyes, and a strong jaw, did Dean recognize who it was and his brows rose. Truthfully, he hadn't even noticed the man in the maroon hoodie and jeans when he'd seen Cain.

"Mr. Winchester." Dean's receptionist greeted him with a stiff smile and a quick nod.

 _Shit, what was his name?_ Dean opened his mouth to respond, running through the list of names in his head _. Not Crispin, not Christian, not Clarence, not Carson_.

“Castiel,” Cain began, cutting off Dean’s frantic train of thought. _Damn it._ “I’m going to go get some hors d’oeuvres, would you like some?”

“Please.” Castiel nodded politely and Cain smiled, leaning down and kissing him on the cheek and murmuring for him to find them some seats before disappearing into the crowd.

“I didn’t even recognize you.” Dean chuckled and rocked back on his heels, noticing as his receptionist’s expression dropped to annoyance and he raised a brow.

“You didn’t recognize me? I’ve been working for you for two and a half years.”

Dean shrugged, fiddling with the plastic cup in his hand. “Never seen you in jeans and a hoodie, y’know?” He chuckled again, but Castiel didn’t return the smile. Instead, he shook his head and brushed past Dean to go look for a spot to sit. Dean stared after him, surprised that he would act so rudely, but shook it off and checked his texts as he walked back to concessions for more beer.

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
_12:19P 5/7/16_  
“Wouldn’t a boss-type like you have to fly frequently?”

 _SMS Message to Honey_  
_12:21P 5/7/16_  
“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I like it.”

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
_12:23P 5/7/16_  
“So, do I get to know your name yet?”

Dean chuckled, waiting as the boy behind the counter in the red cap refilled his cup.

 _SMS Message to Honey_  
_12:24P 5/7/16_  
“Tell you what, I’m feeling generous, so I’ll give you a hint. I was named after my grandmother. One of those names that can be changed between genders, you know? Like Robert for Roberta. How about you? Can I know yours?”

“Thanks.” Dean accepted the plastic cup with the piss colored liquid inside and climbed the steps back to the box, his phone buzzing just as he stepped off the last step.

 _SMS Message from Honey_  
_12:25P 5/7/16_  
“I’ll give you a hint. I was named after the angel of Thursday.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully, wishing he remembered more of the stories his mother used to tell him before bed, the ones of angels and demons and grand battles. He edited the contact in his phone, smiling softly to himself and sighing. He had a friend, a good friend, who would listen to his troubles and just talk with him about whatever, make him feel better and apparently wasn’t too busy for him. Not to mention, he had a rather amazing trouser snake. Dean sent the next response quickly, just before a fat opera star walked onto the pitcher’s mound to sing the National Anthem and everyone stood.

 _SMS Message to Angel_  
_12:26P 5/7/16_  
“Kinda funny, huh? Since I met you on a Thursday.”


	11. Time

_SMS Message from Angel  
7:36P 5/10/16  
_ "So, we talked about fears, what are your dreams?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
7:39P 5/10/16  
_ "Maybe one day I'll be able to be the man my dad wanted me to be. You?

 _SMS Message from Angel  
7:40P 5/10/16_  
"That I'll be able to travel the world. Paint the great wall of China, the Eiffel tower, the leaning tower of Pisa, etc."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
7:41P 5/10/16_  
"Dude, that's called graffiti and it's illegal."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
7:42P 5/10/16_  
"You know what I mean."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
7:43P 5/10/16_  
":D I know, just messing."

 

* * *

 

 

 _SMS Message to Angel  
5:30P 5/14/16  
_ "I just had the best idea."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
5:32P 5/14/16_  
"Did you? What is it?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
5:34P 5/14/16_  
"Self ironing pants. I would save so much time since I wouldn't be fucking around with this stupid cord! Ugh!"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
5:35P 5/14/16_  
"Lol."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
5:36P 5/14/16_  
"It's not funny. It's unplugged twice now."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
5:37P 5/14/16_  
"It's pretty funny."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
5:40P 5/14/16_  
"Not funny."

 

* * *

 

 _SMS Message from Angel  
12:31A 5/21/16  
_ "What did you want to be when you grew up?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
12:33A 5/21/16_  
"Firefighter. You?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
12:34A 5/21/16_  
"An accountant. Why a firefighter?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
12:35A 5/21/16_  
"That's a story for another time. Why an accountant?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
12:36A 5/21/16_  
"I'm good with numbers."

 

* * *

 

 _SMS Message to Angel  
12:26P 5/22/16  
_ "So, the angel of Thursday is Sachiel. That can't actually be your name."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
12:27P 5/22/16_  
"It might be."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
12:28P 5/22/16_  
"You won't tell me until you figure out my name?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
12:29P 5/22/16_  
"Exactly. George?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
12:30P 5/22/16_  
"Lol, nope."

 

* * *

 

 

 _SMS Message from Angel  
10:00A 5/25/16  
_ "Michael?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
10:02A 5/25/16_  
"So far off. What's your brother's name?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
10:03 5/25/16_  
"James. Yours?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
10:04A 5/25/16_  
"Sam. How the hell did you get named after the angel with the unpronounceable name and he got Jimmy?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
10:05A 5/25/16_  
"Maybe that's a story for another time."

 

* * *

 

 

 _SMS Message from Angel  
8:54P 5/27/16  
_ "Have you seen the latest season of Orange is the New Black?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
10:32P 5/27/16_  
"What? No. I watch crappy motel tv, no Netflix. Although this Dr. Sexy M.D. has always been one of my guilty pleasures. Why?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
10:33P 5/27/16_  
"It's amazing. You live in a motel?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
10:34P 5/27/16_  
"For now, yeah. Just sold my house and car, couldn't stay there after the divorce."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
10:35P 5/27/16_  
"That makes sense, but shouldn't you get an apartment?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
10:48P 5/27/16_  
"I was practically raised in motels. I'm just taking some time to feel like me again."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
10:50P 5/27/16_  
"Understandable. Why were you raised in motels?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
11:05P 5/27/16_  
"Another story for another time."

 

* * *

 

 

 _SMS Message to Angel  
7:58A 5/29/16  
_ "Alright, so, how old were you when you lost your virginity?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
8:11A 5/29/16_  
"Do you realize how long we've been skirting the topic of sex?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
8:12A 5/29/16_  
"Yep, I do."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
8:13A 5/29/16_  
"I was twenty two, his name was Balthazar. Very suave, kind of a maverick type. How about you?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
8:15A 5/29/16_  
"Fifteen. Don't remember her name or what city we were in."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
8:37 5/29/16_  
"Have you only had sex with women?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
8:38A 5/29/16_  
"Uh, yeah. Still got my gayginity. You only have sex with men?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
8:40A 5/29/16_  
"Indeed I do."

 

* * *

 

 

 _SMS Message from Angel  
1:01P 5/31/16  
_ "So, can I ask why you lived in motels your whole life yet?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
1:03P 5/31/16_  
"My dad liked to travel after my mom died. We went all over the states until I was about thirteen, when me and my brother went to live with my uncle Bobby. It wasn't terrible."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
1:05P 5/31/16_  
"Did you travel for his work?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
1:06P 5/31/16_  
"I don't think so. He was kinda in and out of jobs. Where's your dad?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
1:07P 5/31/16_  
"I don't know. He left when I was young. I barely remember him. May I ask what happened to your mom?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
1:08P 5/31/16_  
"Fire. I was four, Sam was six months. Dad died just a few years ago. Heart attack. Far as I know, he never stopped traveling."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
1:10P 5/31/16_  
"I'm sorry to hear that. It's why you wanted to be a firefighter?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
1:10P 5/31/16_  
"Yep."

 

* * *

 

 

 _SMS Message from Angel  
3:57P 6/1/16  
_ "So, I've been thinking."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
3:59P 6/1/16_  
"Ooh, you hurt yourself?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
4:00P 6/1/16_  
"No?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
4:02P 6/1/16_  
"It was a joke... What we're you thinking about?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
4:03P 6/1/16_  
"Why don't you volunteer?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
4:05P 6/1/16  
_ "I donate to charities, I don't need to volunteer."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
4:06P 6/1/16_  
"I mean as a fireman. You can volunteer on the weekends or something. Are you in shape?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
4:11P 6/1/16_  
"Yeah, but I usually work on the weekends."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
4:12P 6/1/16_  
"So you miss a couple days. I'm sure your boss won't kill you."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
4:15P 6/1/16_  
"Dude, I am the boss."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
4:16P 6/1/16_  
"It was a joke... Charles?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
4:17P 6/1/16_  
"Lol, still no."

 

* * *

 

 

 _SMS Message to Angel  
6:41P 6/3/16  
_ "You busy?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
6:42P 6/1/16_  
"Not really. Watching the latest season of The Wire they just put it up on Netflix. What's up?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
6:44P 6/1/16_  
"Bored. I get my son tomorrow. Probably taking him to the statue of liberty. Don't think he's ever been."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
6:47P 6/1/16_  
"Sounds like fun."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
6:48P 6/1/16_  
"How's it going with your sugar daddy?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
6:50P 6/1/16_  
"My what?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
6:51P 6/1/16_  
"Sugar daddy. You know, he gives you money, you give him sex and company. You said you're not actually together yet. Sugar daddy."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
6:52P 6/1/16_  
"Ah. It's going well."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
6:59P 6/1/16_  
"That's it? No details?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
7:01P 6/1/16_  
"No."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
7:03P 6/1/16_  
"Right. Sorry."

 

* * *

 

 

 _SMS Message from Angel  
6:39A 6/2/16  
_ "What's your uncle like?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
9:21A 6/2/16_  
"Old. Kinda grumpy. He's not actually my uncle, he's my dad's old friend. What's your mom like?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
9:23A 6/2/16_  
"Loud... excitable... She's absolutely obsessed with the Supernatural series. Have you heard of it?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
9:25A 6/2/16_  
"Lol. No, is it good?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
9:30A 6/2/16_  
"No, it's actually really awful. I tried reading it, couldn't get past the first chapter. She swears by them, though. I think she's read each one about five times."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
9:31A 6/2/16_  
"Damn. That's dedication."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
9:32A 6/2/16_  
"That's a nice way to put it, lol."

 

* * *

 

 

 _SMS Message from Angel  
3:15A 6/4/16  
_ "Are you awake?"

 _SMS Message to Angel  
3:20A 6/4/16_  
"Barely. What's up?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
3:22A 6/4/16_  
"I can’t sleep, I have a lot on my mind."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
3:23A 6/4/16_  
"Like what?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
3:25A 6/4/16_  
"My 'sugar daddy', as you so tactfully put it, was... different tonight. More rough."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
3:36A 6/4/16_  
"You mean.. during sex or just in general?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
3:36A 6/4/16_  
"During sex."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
3:37A 6/4/16_  
"Are you okay?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
3:40A 6/4/16_  
"Yes, just sore."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
3:41A 6/4/16_  
"Did he lay his hand on you?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
3:43A 6/4/16_  
"Yes, but nothing out of the ordinary."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
3:44A 6/4/16_  
"What the hell does that mean? He usually hits you?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
3:49A 6/4/16_  
"Sometimes, yes. But only during sex. He's kinky."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
3:50A 6/4/16_  
"And you're okay with it?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
3:53A 6/4/16_  
"Yes. Can we talk about something else? I just want to talk… Patrick?”

 _SMS Message to Angel  
3:55A 6/4/16_  
"Not Patrick, and yeah. As long you're okay with it and he's not beating on you... What did you want to talk about?"

 

* * *

 

 

 _SMS Message to Angel  
2:11A 6/7/16  
_ "It's 2:11 in the morning, and I can't sleep worth a damn."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
2:13A 6/7/16_  
"You're wrong, it's actually 2:13 in the morning."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
2:14A 6/7/16_  
"Um, no. It's 2:14."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
2:15A 6/7/16_  
"Nope. 2:15."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
2:16A 6/7/16_  
"Dude, get your eyes checked, it's obviously 2:16."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
2:17A 6/7/16_  
"I just looked at it. It's 2:17."

 

* * *

 

 

 _SMS Message to Angel  
12:26P 6/10/16  
_ "So, you gonna tell me what the deal is with you being name Scratchiopolis and your twin being named James?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
12:27P 6/10/16_  
"Okay, Scratchiopolis made me literally lol."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
12:30P 6/10/16_  
"Good. Does that mean I get to hear the story?"

 _SMS Message from Angel  
12:32P 6/10/16_  
"Probably not."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
12:33P 6/10/16_  
"Awwww, c'mon babe. I wanna hear it."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
12:37P 6/10/16_  
"I mean, not babe. Typo."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
12:43P 6/10/16_  
"Alright... when my mom was pregnant, she and my father decided on the name James. When they got the first ultrasound they found out that she was pregnant with twins. They couldn't agree on a second name until, quite literally, the day of the birth. My mother decided that I should be named after the angel of Thursday because Jimmy and I were born on a Thursday and they hadn't planned on a second baby."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
12:44P 6/10/16_  
"Huh... I like that. It's really original."

 _SMS Message from Angel  
12:45P 6/10/16_  
"I'd have to agree, although it is a strange name."

 _SMS Message to Angel  
12:46P 6/10/16  
_ “Ain’t that the truth.”

 

* * *

 

 

 _SMS Message to Angel  
7:12A 6/13/16  
_ “So, this is crazy and just so stupid on my part and I’ll probably regret it, but… I was thinking, maybe we could meet today. In person. I mean, it’s only fair, I’ve sucked your dick, what, four times now? Lol. I just.. Shit. I dunno. I guess we’re friends and I just thought… Yeah.”

 _SMS Message from Angel  
7:13A 6/7/16  
_ “Actually, that sounds wonderful. Have you ever been to the Aroma Espresso Bar?”

 _SMS Message to Angel  
7:14A 6/7/16  
_ “Nope, can’t say I have.”

 _SMS Message from Angel  
7:16A 6/7/16  
_ “Then I’ll see you there at seven.”

 _SMS Message to Angel  
7:47A 6/7/16  
_ “Alright, yeah. I’ll see you at seven. I’ll be the handsome guy wearing jeans and a Blue Oyster Cult shirt.”

 _SMS Message from Angel  
7:47A 6/7/16  
_ “Alright, I’m kind of excited to meet you. ;P ”

 _SMS Message to Angel  
7:48A 6/7/16  
_ “Yeah, me too.”


	12. Meeting

"Good morning, Mr. Winchester. I have your coffee right here." The receptionist greeted Dean pleasantly, even smiling, as the chrome doors separating the elevator and lobby slid open. Dean stepped out of the elevator, giddy and grinning himself.

"Morning." He'd given up on trying to remember the name, it was just impossible. He picked up his mug and took a drink from the hot liquid inside, rocking back on his heels and blowing a breath out his nose. He was excited, he couldn't deny that. He and his friend, Angel, had been texting back and forth for about a month and a half, very nearly every day. They were close, well, as close as they could be without seeing each other's faces. Not as close as he and Charlie or Sam, and yet, closer at the same time. There was no judgment, no looks or lectures. They shared a bond that he was incredibly grateful for. He was just there, easy to talk to and pleasant, and Dean was more than excited to show his friend his appreciation. "You have a good weekend?" Dean held the mug at chest level and looked at the blue-eyed man behind the desk, unable to miss the look of surprise that flashed across the other's face.

"I... Did. Thank you." The secretary nodded, smiling suspiciously. It was nice to see him smile, to see something different from the stoic expression that usually clouded those sharp features. He was truly a stunning man, something Dean had always known and never vocalized.

"No problem." A glint on the hardwood desk caught the corner of his eye and he looked down. Wow, he'd been a total idiot for two years. "Cas-teal." He read the nameplate and looked at the receptionist, grinning and quite obviously proud of himself.

"It's pronounced Cas-tea-ell. Castiel." Castiel nodded once, eyeing Dean as though he wasn't sure whether to congratulate him for finally pulling his head out of his ass and reading the nameplate, or be annoyed that he took two and a half years to read a bit of folded up copper on the desk with his name on it and _still_ pronounce it wrong.

Dean hummed, taking another sip as he looked over the name. "Yeah. Tell ya what," Dean moved toward the end of the desk on his way to his office. "I think I'm just gonna go with Cas."

"Only close friends and family call me Cas." Castiel responded, voice straining like he was barely keeping from snapping, expression nonplussed and annoyed.

"Well," Dean grabbed the doorknob and pushed the open the oak door, back to his office, as he gave Cas a shit-eating grin. "Consider me a close friend or family." He winked and stepped into his office, hearing the agitated sigh as the door swung shut. He chuckled under his breath and shook his head at how high strung the man behind the receptionist desk was.

Dean sat down and sighed, drumming his fingers on his desk and smiling. He hadn't felt so excited, so full of energy and optimistic since.. Well, probably since he and Lisa drove to Vegas to tie the knot. He worked for about half an hour before the intercom buzzed and the deep, garbled voice of the man in the lobby filtered through his speaker.

"The mail just came, there's something for you from the courthouse."

Dean frowned, tapping his pen on the desk as he thought of what that might be. He reached over and depressed the red button. "Go ahead and bring it in. I'm not on a call or anything." He let go of the button and sat back, picking up his mug and drinking from it.

"Yes sir, that's quite obvious since none of the lines are busy." Cas snarked. Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head, watching the door as it opened and a thick mania envelope was dropped on his desk without a word.

"Thanks Cas." Dean traded his coffee for the envelope, ignoring the scoff at the nickname. Hey, at least he was trying, right? He didn't have time to ponder the receptionist's sudden sour attitude over the last few months as he opened the envelope and pulled out the divorce papers within. His smile faltered a moment, his senses dulling. It was the nail in the coffin of his marriage with Lisa. It was the last piece of the puzzle before the whole thing broke apart.

With a deep sigh, he started reading. He'd learned long ago never to sign anything until he'd read through the fine print. He was only halfway through when he had a surprise meeting with Cain. He set the papers to the side to finish reading later, wondering why Cain was there since they'd already closed the sale.

 

* * *

 

 

"...So, after much thought, I've changed my mind. I'm not going to sell."

Dean blinked a few times, trying to comprehend the impossible words from the bearded man's mouth. "What? No. You can't."

"Yes, I can. It's my property."

"Um, no." Dean stood up and moved the filing cabinet against the left wall, pulling open the second drawer and flipping through the files. "Your contract stated that the sale was final, you can't actually renege without serious financial repercussions." He pulled out Cain's folder and walked back to the desk, setting it down in front the older man with a soft thwap as he sat himself the leather chair. Cain picked the folder and opened it, scanning the pages. Dean waited, he was patient. After about ten minutes, Cain looked up, looking grim.

"I'd like a copy of this to give to my lawyers."

Dean nodded and hit the intercom button. "'Course. Cas, I need you to make a copy of the contract for Mr. Smith." He let go of the button and folded his arms, looking at Cain who stared right back, unflinching. They'd already discussed it, Dean had gone over every line with Cain and they'd already paid the man across the desk. He didn’t let his annoyance at the man’s sudden change of heart affect his professionalism and smiled away.

The door opened and Cas slipped in, trademark blue tie dangling over the waistband of his trousers. He took the papers from Cain, muscles tensing as their fingers brushed together. Dean’s brows raised ever so slightly at the reaction and he narrowed his eyes. He knew they were dating, had known since the Yankees game the month prior, and he’d even brought it up a few times. Castiel had remained tightlipped about it, even after Dean had pointed out the giant hickey along the crook of his neck. After that, he could still see the soft purple under the haze of make-up, but he never pointed it out, especially since the blue-eyed man was so painstakingly covering it up with foundation.

The receptionist left, leaving a tense silence over the two in the office. Cain slowly turned to look at Dean, one brow raised. “He sure is something, huh?” A wolfish grin pulled at the corners of his mouth and Dean felt the hairs along the back of his neck prickle.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. If you’re into that kind of thing.” Dean shrugged nonchalantly, ignoring the pounding in his chest. No way Cain knew about his… Extra curriculars. Right? The older man hummed and nodded, still smiling.

“He’s _very_ limber. And adventurous.”

“I bet.” Dean gave a nervous chuckle, drumming the pads of his fingers over his desk. “But nothing can beat a great rack and a nice ass.” He smirked and leaned back in his seat, resisting the urge to shrink back as Cain’s icy blue eyes swiveled to his green; that hungry grin still playing at his lips, something sinister underneath.

“You won’t really know until you sink into a nice ass as tight as that one.”

Dean opened his mouth to say something, shock evident in his wide eyes and blank stare, but he was saved by the bell as the door opened and Cas came back in. Dean looked at the man, blinking a few times before accepting the original of the contract and nodding. “Thanks, Cas,” he breathed and looked away.

 

* * *

 

 

The meeting didn’t last much longer after Cain had gotten his copy of the contract and Dean breathed out a sigh of relief when he left. For the rest of the day, he’d gone over every line of the divorce papers and, when he was sure he knew what he was getting into – or rather, ending – he signed at the bottom and slipped it back into the manila envelope. He stood as the clock ticked five and pulled his jacket on, grinning as his heart thrummed excitedly under his ribs.

Nothing could really ruin the day he met his Angel.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean went back to the motel and changed into his Blue Oyster Cult shirt and jeans. He gelled his hair and spritzed on some cologne and slapped his cheeks a couple times, glaring at the bags under his eyes in the mirror. Really, he was fussing over nothing. He looked fine, and it’s not like this guy was more than just a friend, or would ever be more.

Okay, so maybe a small, teeny, tiny voice in the back of Dean’s mind kinda hoped that maybe this guy would be super-hot and want to quell his desire for affection. God, he swore he was growing ovaries.

Dean gave another long sigh and nodded at himself in the mirror because he wouldn’t get much better than that. He walked out to his car and slipped inside before pulling out his phone, biting his lip anxiously.

 _SMS Message to Angel_  
6:46P 6/7/16  
“Hey, I’m headin’ out. See you soon, I guess.”

He arrived at the coffee shop right on time and he parked on the street in front, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he scoped out the place through the window. Nobody really stuck out, although he had to admit that the tall blond guy toward the back was pretty attractive. Dean sighed and shook his head, willing himself not to psyche himself out. With his luck, the guy would… Well, the guy would look like Bobby. That gave Dean pause, his hand on the door handle as he continued looking through the window. What if it was some old nasty guy and he’d had his dick in his mouth? Was Dean better not knowing?

In the end, pure, unadulterated curiosity pushed him out the car, over the sidewalk, and into the coffee shop. He ordered some kind of frilly coffee drink that he couldn’t pronounce and went to wait at the other end of the counter, hands clammy and heart racing. He pulled out his phone and checked it.

Nothing. No response.

Dean frowned and looked at the time. Quarter past 7. He sighed and picked up his coffee, moving to a table in the back and sipping at the sugary coffee within. It was different from his usual plain black coffee, but it wasn’t bad. He sighed and checked his phone again not too long after. Half past 7. He kept his gaze on the door. Quarter til 8.

Heart sinking, Dean threw away his long empty cup and stood to go outside when his phone buzzed. Quickly, he pulled it out and unlocked it, reading the text as his heart jumped into his throat. He wished the stupid organ would just stay where it belonged.

 _SMS Message from Angel_  
8:49P 6/7/16  
“I’m so sorry. Something came up, but I’m walking in right now.”

Dean read the text as the door jingled and he grinned, looking up at the door as a man with brown hair, a goatee, and chocolate eyes walked in, the door held open by someone he couldn’t see. Dean slipped his phone away and nodded his approval. The guy may have been a little gangly, maybe a little bug-eyed, but definitely still cute. He slipped his phone away and walked up to the bar behind him, the person who’d held open the door moving to stand behind Dean.

“I’ll have the pomegranate Tazo tea. Can I get a squirt of honey in that please?”

Dean smiled and nodded, sure that this was his guy. He pulled out his phone and texted Angel back as the stranger in front of him paid.

 _SMS Message to Angel_  
8:51P 6/7/16  
“Honey? Really? Lol.”

He chuckled softly and sent the text, putting his phone away and stepping up to order. “I’ll have a—“ He cut himself off as he heard a text tone from behind him. From behind him. Not from the guy who ordered the tea. He blinked a couple times, feeling strange and detached as he slowly turned around, gaze landing on a man a few inches shorter than him with a mess of raven hair and a red hoodie, head bowed as he typed into his phone. Was this-?

“Sir?” Dean whipped back around and smiled.

“Sorry. Just a-uh.. Frappe. Thing.” He fumbled for his wallet as his phone chimed with a new message. He paid and went to wait at the other side of the counter, checking his phone.

 _SMS Message from Angel_  
8:52P 6/7/16  
“What? Also, I’m in a red hoodie and jeans. I don’t see you.”

Dean read the text twice and looked up, a slow grin pulling at his lips. That is, until the deep rumble of the shorter man reached his ear drums.

The same rumble from the bathroom.

And from across the intercom.

Dean’s jaw dropped, stunned, as the man in the red hoodie paid and turned to him, guarded confusion flashing over his face.

“Mr. Winchester?” The deep blue eyes flicked down to Dean’s shirt and Cas’ eyes went wide, his jaw dropping almost to the floor.

Dean cleared his throat and grabbed his coffee, throwing the shorter man his best smile, tight at the corners. “Hiya Cas.” He croaked.


	13. Averages

Dean remembered when Bobby had told him something about the Law of Averages when he was younger and he’d gotten caught with Tracy in the back of her dad’s Honda. That was the night he’d lost his virginity, he’d remembered, of course. He remembered everyone he’d slept with, maybe because each of them took a bit of him with them when they, inevitably, left him broken and bleeding on the pavement.

The Law of Averages, as Bobby explained it, was that for every good thing that happens in life, something bad has to happen, and vice versa. Something to balance out the Universe. Dean didn’t understand then, and, twenty-one years later, he still didn’t, if only because the Law of Averages didn’t seem to apply to Dean Winchester. When the bad happened, it just happened, and kept happening.

 

* * *

 

The seconds to minutes that ticked by as Castiel processed what was going on were excruciating. Dean's heart thrummed under his skin as he watched the range of surprise to disgust to humiliation that crossed over Cas' features. "No." He said finally, slowly, as he shook his head. "No." He picked up his coffee and took a step back, staring at Dean as though he’d just told him he was an actual serial killer. "This... this is a joke. A prank. You _can’t_ be..."

Dean shrugged, feeling like he'd been kicked in the stomach at Cas' reaction. Of course, he shouldn't have expected anything else. He'd known the man over two years and had _just_ learned his name. And yet, he’d bared his soul to him, talked with him late at night and all day about everything and nothing. Thinking back on it, telling the stranger that he should leave his job to pursue his dreams had been, well, unfavorable at best. "You're the bee man, huh?"

The color drained from Cas' face, his chapped lips parting as he stared at Dean, jaw slack. "I'm the bee man.." He whispered to himself as though it were a discovery. His eyes were wide, disbelieving. "You're my jackass boss. I called you a jackass and a douche to _you_... Oh god."

Dean shifted on his feet, bringing up his right hand to rub over the back of his neck, mouth tipped up in a humorless smirk. "Yeah. You sure did."

Castiel blinked and leaned back on his heels, looking suspiciously at Dean, an underlying fear in his blue eyes. "Am I fired?"

Dean dropped his hand and wrapped it around the other side of his cup, shaking his head. "Uh, no." He sighed and looked away, toward where the barista was hastily steaming milk for someone's overpriced drink. He was so used to being head honcho, the big boss, suave and confident, but here he was, in front of his secretary and feeling no taller than two inches. He'd opened up his bleeding heart and showed this man, but he was no stranger.

He never had been.

"I'm going to..." Castiel took a step back, glancing from Dean to the door and back. "I’m going to go. Let's never talk about this again." He turned for the door, but Dean grabbed his shoulder, firm beneath his fingers.

"Wait!" Desperation flooded his voice and he cleared his throat, pulling his hand back as it started to shake. He was about to lose someone else, someone else he cared for. "I didn't know it was you, okay? How could I?"

Castiel whirled, fire in his blue eyes so fierce Dean shrank back an inch, although he would never admit it to anyone who hadn’t actually seen it. Castiel spoke quietly, forcefully, something akin to a primal growl that made Dean want to pretend he didn’t even exist. "You were playing me! I bet your stupid wife didn't even leave you and you're still living in that mansion you call a house, not a fucking motel!" The acid coated words dripping from between Castiel's plump, chapped lips only ceased long enough for him to take a breath. "What did you get out of this, huh? What kind of sick pleasure did you get from making me _care_ about you?!" Tears sprang up over his ducts, bright white reflected in the wet under the deep pools of blue.

Dean swallowed, the elation that came with the fact that Cas cared about him quickly engulfed by the guilt that gripped the bottom of his stomach, even though he didn't do what he was being accused of. "Cas, I didn't-"

"Bullshit! There is no way this was just some- some _strange coincidence_!” Castiel spat, lips twisting down in anger under furrowed brows. He took in a deep breath through his nose and looked at the ceiling, the wet under his cerulean irises shimmering in the fluorescent light of the coffee shop. He held the breath and blew it out his mouth, ghosting over Dean's cheek and jaw, making him want to lean in. Finally, he pinned Dean with that stoic, all-seeing glare, regaining some semblance of control. "Don't ever speak to me about this again." He turned and walked through the front door, bell jingling merrily over his head, a stark contrast from the tense silence that had fallen over the coffee shop in the wake of their dispute. Dean swallowed and looked around, the room growing hazy as angry, bitter tears clouded his vision. Everyone was staring at him as though he'd just murdered a child in the middle of Times Square.

"Oh, fuck off, huh?" He snarled in a disgusting combination of embarrassment and anger, turning toward the door and stomping out. He made only one stop on his way to the motel: the liquor store.

 

* * *

 

The green LED lights on the alarm clock display ticked midnight and Dean swiped a hand down his face, staring at the ceiling. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have hoped that the stranger - no longer a stranger, but someone he spent most of the week about five feet away from - would like him? Nobody liked him, not when it really came down to the nitty gritty. He was toxic, cold and stubborn.

At least that was how it felt.

Dean's hand slammed down over the nightstand as he felt around for his phone, finding it easily enough and picking it up. He unlocked it and squinted, digging the back of his head into the pillow as the bright light blinded him in the otherwise darkened room. In his inebriated state, he decided trying to text Cas would be a good idea. He spoke the words aloud – the only sound in the room apart from his half-hearted breathing - as he typed them.  
"It wasn't a trick, Cas. I swear. How could I have known it was you? I do stay at a motel, Days Motel, room 128. Please believe that I wasn’t trying to fuck with you." He sent the send button without giving himself room for doubt.

Dean stared at his phone for a very long time, as if hoping that Cas would text back just because he willed it. The bright screen swam in his already blurry vision and he rolled over to his side and breathed out slowly because concentrating on his breathing was actually fairly soothing. He couldn't sleep. He had had so much to drink that every time he closed his eyes it felt like the world was going a million revolutions a minute and his stomach flipped excitedly as it tried to keep up. He kept swallowing, throat working because it was so dry and he was afraid he'd vomit. He went to his contacts and scrolled through. Dean paused, looking at the nickname he'd given the man who turned out to be his receptionist, thumb hovering just over the call button. He'd be an idiot to call Cas, to try and beg for the intimacy they had shared before. So he scrolled and called the next person he could think of.

"Your house better be on fire Dean, I swear."

Dean chuckled bitterly, burying half his face in the expensive pillow he'd bought, finding comfort in the plush. "Missed you too, Charlie. This a bad time?" He slurred.

"That depends. Does 'about to get my groove on with a gorgeous brunette in chain mail' sound like a bad time to get a call?"

"Right. Sorry. I'll talk to you later." As Dean pulled the phone away from his ear, he heard Charlie's voice squawk through the speaker. He frowned and brought the phone back to his ear. “What?”

"I said: nah, it's cool. What's up, bitch?"

Dean chuckled quietly, the sound changing course midway into something like a bitter, choked sob. He could practically hear Charlie sitting up on the other end of the line, worry creasing the cream skin over her brow.

“Dean? What happened?”

“I fucked up, Charlie… I don’t know what I did, but I fucked up and…” He trailed off and sniffed before sitting up with a grunt. He swung his legs over the end of the bed and leaned down to pick up the half full bottle of whiskey, lifting it up to eye it in the soft glint of the weak stream of orange light filtering in through the grimy window. The curtains behind him fluttered as a breeze moved through the room, brushing over his hot back and sending goosebumps over his skin. He popped the cap, deciding that the whiskey was half empty, not half full, but he’d work on making it completely empty.

“Dean.” Charlie’s voice came through the speaker, soft and worried. “What happened?” She asked again, although it was less like a question and more like a demand.

Dean took a deep breath and blew it out through his nose, chasing the taste with whiskey before setting the bottle down on the floor. He leaned his elbow on his knee, back arched out, and sighed before he started to tell Charlie the whole story from the divorce to the coffee shop and everything in between.

 

* * *

 

Dean woke up the next morning with his alarm and groaned, rolling to his side and smacking the clock beside the bed. His head hurt, which Sam always loved to inform him was a sign of getting old, and his whole body ached, which was _actually_ a sign of getting old. He sighed out shakily, eyes squeezed closed against the sunrise creeping through the room. He didn’t remember what happened after he called Charlie, but his pillow was wet, he could feel it against the side of his face. He decided then and there that it was definitely wet with drool, not tears. It wouldn’t be tears, right?

Dean opened puffy eyes and hissed as a metaphorical ice pick jabbed into his frontal lobe. He pushed himself up, standing on wobbly legs, and dragged himself to the bathroom to shower and glare at himself in the mirror before dressing. He popped a few advil, washing the blue pills down with a bottle of water from the mini fridge he’d bought and placed in the bottom of the closet. He rolled up the sleeves of his pinstriped shirt and adjusted his maroon suspenders, smirking at himself in the mirror.

Deep breaths and a cocksure attitude and he could put anything behind him, lock it away in the little box deep within him and leave it for cobwebs to entangle. He left and headed to his car, phone buzzing in his pocket as he slipped into his car and goddamn he would gladly rip out his heart if it didn’t stop doing impossible acrobatics inside his chest every time he got a text. He pulled out his phone and raised a brow. Two new messages.

 _SMS Message from Charlie_  
_4:21A 6/8/16_  
“Keep your head up, bitch. You know you’re awesome. Love you!”

Dean smiled softly, feeling better. That is, until he looked at the next message.

 _SMS Message from Angel_  
_12:48A 6/8/16_  
“Don’t text me again, Dean. I’d rather not have to change my number, but I will if you don’t stop.”

Dean sighed and thinned his lips, swallowing and shaking his head. No, he couldn’t let it bring him down. He had to keep his head up; it was what he’d always done. It was time to stuff away emotionally wrecked and depressed Dean and just be… Something. He’d figure it out eventually. Curiously, he scrolled to see what message he’d sent Cas, and promptly groaned, running his hand down his face.

 _SMS Message to Angel_  
_12:09A 6/8/16_  
“It wasn't a trick Cas u sweat fire coitus u have Indian it sad you+i to stay wet q Kill x days motel x room 128n please grieve that I rant trying to fuck Ruth you.”

“Fuckin’ Swype.” He grumbled and keyed the engine, tossing his phone to the seat next to him and rolling into traffic, driving to work.

All Dean had to do was pretend that everything was okay, and even if he didn’t believe it, everyone else would. That was what mattered. It never mattered if he was dying inside from the death of his mother. It didn’t matter if he was nearly too sore to move from sitting cramped in a car all day. It didn’t matter if he had a shit day and just wanted to go home to someone who loved him and cared about him. Everything had to be okay, because he was Dean Winchester, and Dean Winchester wasn’t weak.

Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he thought he must be due for a win. The Law Of Averages said so. He scoffed to himself and turned the radio up. It would have to be a huge win to make up for how hard life had kicked him in the balls.


	14. Shower

The air in the office was tense, with an underlying anger that Dean could practically taste. His and Castiel's interactions were no more than the sparse professionalism that was actually necessary. Dean caught himself noticing more things about the angel, things he hadn't noticed before. The way he carried himself, straight and confident. The way he narrowed his eyes and tipped his head to the side when perplexed. The way stubble covered his sharp jaw and the dimple in his chin. It was like someone had taken a rag and wiped the film from a window. It was like he could truly see his assistant, not as a guy who answered phones, but someone who loved to paint and wanted to travel.

Someone who tasted like honey and smelled like aftershave with the underlying coolness of dew on a morning lawn.

Dean was an idiot, he knew this much. It took him over two years to see something so beautiful five inches from his face and he'd only noticed as it slipped away.

* * *

 

Friday after lunch, Dean was sitting in his office, going over facts and figures. He'd dove into his work as a refuge, like he always did, but even that didn't provide the same comfort as it used to. An itch had settled under his skin, something needy that ebbed and flowed as though it were alive. He needed more than sex, he needed companionship, but without the latter, he supposed he could let himself believe the former contained some sort of intimacy that could sate him. He picked up his desk phone, fingers hovering over the numbers to call Anna, when his door blew open quickly enough to make him jump. "Cas, you-" he huffed angrily and looked up, all remnants of indignation fading away as a slow grin crawled over his lips. "Sammy, you son of a bitch!" Dean stood and walked over to his Sasquatch of a brother, pulling him into a hug. "What the fuck are you doing here?" He pulled away from Sam, elated as he looked up at his baby brother.

"Yeah, good to see you too, Dean." Sam chuckled softly and looked pointedly at the chairs facing Dean's desk.

"Oh, right, yeah." Dean moved into his office and motioned to the chair. "Come in, sit. You want some coffee? Water?" He sat down and leaned his elbows on his desk as Sam crammed his giant frame into the chair opposite the desk.

"No. No, I'm good." Sam raised a hand, palm out, and smiled. "Thanks though."

Dean hadn't seen Sam since Mary was born a few years ago, and he couldn't have come at a better time. Dean could feel his stresses melting away just from the proximity. "So, what's up? What are you doing in New York?"

Sam smiled and ran a hand through his thick brown hair. Dean made a note to inform his little brother, once again, that he desperately needed a haircut. Seriously, what kind of firm would hire a lawyer with hair like that? Oh yeah, none, which was why Sam had started his own. "Jess is pregnant again."

Dean beamed at his little brother, reeling back a little from his own thoughts. "Dude! That's awesome! Sucks for you, but awesome!" He chuckled as Sam scoffed and threw him a patent pending Bitch Face, shaking his head.

"Yeah, listen we're having a baby shower tomorrow at three in Central Park. Can you make it?”

Dean bit his lip; he was supposed to have Ben on Saturdays. "Can I bring Ben?"

Sam raised a curious brow. "Yeah, I guess. Why?"

Shit, right. Dean didn't tell Sam about the divorce. "I uh, I get him on Saturdays. Me and Lisa got divorced."

Sam nodded knowingly and Dean had to fight down his own annoyance at the nonchalant expression over Sam’s face. Everyone had known, everyone had seen it, but that didn’t make it right for Sam to get that stupid look that said ‘I knew it all along’. "Alright, yeah. No problem." He smiled and Dean nodded in return, drumming his hands on the desk, ring clacking over the top. That was when he remembered it was even there, and he looked down at the gold glinting softly in the light. With a sigh, he pulled the ring from his finger, feeling strange and naked without it. He didn’t pay any attention as Sam watched him drop it in the drawer of his desk and close it before turning back, grinning.

“How ‘bout a celebratory drink?”

* * *

 

“Hey Dean, it’s Lisa. I know it’s short notice, but Ben has a field trip to the aquarium tomorrow and I promised him he could go. If you want him Sunday, go ahead and call me back, okay? If not, don’t worry about it and I’ll see you next Saturday when you get him. Have a great weekend, okay? Okay, bye.”

Dean frowned, listening to his voicemail after his shower. He sighed and ran the towel over his damp hair, drying it further before pulling the phone away and deleting the message. Well, there went one speed bump. He didn’t have to worry about bringing Ben after all. He lay down on his memory foam mattress pad over the lumpy bed and under his new feather comforter. He didn’t allow his thoughts to drift to the angel behind the dark desk in his lobby. He didn’t let himself imagine a big grin over his lips, crinkling his eyes, excited to see Dean. And he definitely didn’t imagine scratchy stubble over the crook of his neck, wet kisses trailing down his torso and disappearing beneath his waistband. “Damn it.” He murmured in the darkness as his hand slipped into his boxers to release some stress.

* * *

 

The next day, Dean walked into Central Park and into the bustling pavilion, loud with chatter and some light music playing over the speakers, a giant box of diapers under his arm. He deposited the present on a table near the front of stood on tip-toes to find his brother over the throng of people – some of whom he recognized, and others he didn’t. “Sammy!” He shouted, spotting his brother and waving his hand. He moved through the party-goers and towards his brother. “Who the hell _are_ all these people?” He asked as soon as he was close enough for Sam to hear him.

“Friends and family.” Sam responded easily, glass of champagne in hand as he looked over the crowd.

“We’re glad you could make it Dean. You’re the only reason we had it here instead of in Maine.” Spoke the glowing blonde on Sam’s arm. Soft curls draped over her shoulders, meeting the top of her strapless flowery sundress.

“Jess, you look amazing.” Dean grinned and pulled the smaller woman into his arms, who giggled softly and hugged him back. “Not a day over twenty-five.”

Jess laughed and shook her head as she pulled away, resuming her spot beside Sam. “Oh shut it, Dean. I’m only twenty-seven, not eighty.”

Dean opened his mouth to respond when, in a flash of red, someone bowled into him, nearly knocking him over. He regained his footing, which was grateful since the someone had jumped on him, not just run into him. He recognized the titter of laughter and the shriek of his name easily, coupled with the bright red hair that he was currently spitting out. “Charlie!” He laughed and spun the girl around before setting her down and looking at her.

“Hey bitch!” Charlie socked him on the arm and he hissed, holding the offended appendage. “You weren’t even going to tell me you were coming? Fuckin’ rude, dude!”

Dean rolled his eyes, grinning. “C’mon, cut me some slack. I just found out yesterday.” Charlie seemed to consider this a moment before rolling her eyes.

“I guess I can’t stay mad at you.” Her expression turned serious and she leaned in, speaking quietly. “How’re you doing, anyway?”

Dean swallowed, rubbing his neck and looking around at a very curious Sam and Jess. “I’m-uh. I’m good. Thanks.” He smiled nervously and Charlie nodded.

“Everything okay?” Sam asked, one brow raised.

“Yeah, yeah it’s great.” Dean shot a glare at Charlie who shrugged, uncaring. He shifted on his feet and looked among three out of the five people he loved most in this world, shaking his head and smiling. He couldn’t even stay mad at Charlie, not when he was so ecstatic just to feel wanted. “I’m gonna go get some food, huh?” He grinned and moved away, pretending not to listen as Charlie moved over to Sam and started whispering. Truthfully, he was surprised she hadn’t spilled the beans right after they got off the phone. He sighed, deciding it best to just let them do what they did and focus on the table piled high with mini quiches and burgers and hot dogs and sandwiches and pie. His mouth watered and he snatched up a plate, starting to go down the line and fill it with anything and everything in reach.

“Sorry.” Dean mumbled as his hand brushed another’s on his way to the quiches. He pulled his hand back and smiled, turning to the stranger. “These things are just-” The words died on his lips and his mouth ran dry as he was faced with a set of steely blue eyes that he’d recognize anywhere. He swallowed what little saliva he had left and willed his smile to return, although it was small and forced. “Hey Cas.” He croaked.

“Hello, Mr. Winchester.” Castiel replied curtly, his lips thinned and brows furrowed, making Dean’s stomach curl. They were close, so close Dean could feel the slightly shorter man’s warmth and it took all of him not to let his wall slip. Not to show weakness.

“Sam invited you too, huh?” Dean asked, shifting on his feet and looking toward the food table, looking for some kind of conversation.

“He did.” The receptionist replied simply and moved on down the table. Dean’s feet stayed planted to the ground and he watched Cas move, able to catch just a glimpse of a hickey in the crook of his neck. Want flared deep in his gut and he sighed through his nose, turning away and shaking his head. He went to a table toward the edge of the room and sat, thankfully alone, looking at his heaping plate and picking at it. He only looked up as Sam quickly moved to him and pat him on the shoulder to get his attention.

“Dean, I can’t find Mary!” He shouted, expression taut and terrified as his eyes darted all over the room. Dean was on his feet in a moment, looking around at the people moving all around the room, dancing, laughing and generally having a good time. He couldn’t remember having seen the blonde toddler around earlier, but she must have been.

“Okay, you go-”

“Wait! I think I see her!” Sam jogged off through the people and down a hall, Dean on his heels. They rounded a corner and walked down the short hall, Dean’s brow creasing as he saw hide nor hair of the toddler. Sam, however, seemed to have some parental sixth sense, because he pulled open a closet door, peering inside. “Hey, come here and see if you can see her.”

Dean, confused but trusting, nodded and moved toward the closet door. He looked into the small space, seeing a mop and bucket, an array of bottled chemicals, a box of gloves and a sprayer, but no child. “Sam, I don’t think-” but he wasn’t able to finish, as a large Sasquatch hand pressed into the middle of his back and shoved him into the closet as the door slammed shut behind him. “Hey!” He shouted, shin hitting the bucket with a dull ping of pain before he was able to catch himself on the far wall. He straightened in the darkness and turned, anger burning within him when he heard the telltale click of a lock. “What the fuck? Let me out Sam!” He shouted, pressing against the door and banging it with his fist. He tried the knob, but it didn’t give. Who did Sam think he was? What the fuck was he doing?

He only had about five minutes to stew angrily, banging on the door and shouting until his throat hurt. “Back up Dean, I’ll get you out!” Charlie’s muffled voice filtered through the door and Dean complied, backing up. He was blinded as the door flung open, spilling bright light in the dark room. He raised his hands to shield his eyes and didn’t have time to react or speak before something large and muscular ran into him, knocking him into the wall as the door once again closed and locked. Dean let out an ‘oof’ of surprise as the thing collided with him and they were plunged into darkness again.

“The hell?” He grunted, hands moving up to feel over strong biceps just before the figure in the shadows pulled away to the other side of the small room. Even still, their chests were only inches from each other and Dean dug in his pocket for his phone, pulling it out and lighting up the screen, turning it outward to see… “Cas?” His stomach plummeted at the angry receptionist, the silver duct tape over his mouth glinting in the electronic glow from the phone. “What the hell did they do?” He reached up, quickly pulling the tape off. Cas grunted in pain and glared at Dean, mouth red from the tape.

“I think that’s fairly obvious.”

“Yeah, but _why_?” Then it hit him. He’d told Charlie. He’d told her everything, including who the mysterious stranger was and how relaxed he’d felt texting him. Then Charlie had told Sam, and Sam had remembered that he invited the ray of sunshine from Dean’s office and they’d devised a plan. Dean clenched his jaw and turned his face away, stuffing his phone back in his pocket. “I swear to God I’m going to kill them.” He grumbled, fully aware that with every breath he took, he could feel Cas’ chest against his. Through the darkness, he could almost feel the piercing stare glaring at him, making him want to crumple like a house of cards or melt away like a wax statue.

Heaven help his brother and his best friend when he got out of the death trap that was the closet.


	15. Apologies

“My hands, too.”

Dean frowned in confusion, trying to peer through the dark at the other shadow that was his secretary. “What?”

“She tied my hands too.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” Dean raised his hands and gently laid them on Cas’ biceps, the muscles firm and tense under his fingertips, before slowly turning him.

It was such a small space. Such a small fucking space and Dean had to swallow down the note of arousal that rose in his voice. The only sounds in the dark, cramped closet were the uneven breaths of the two men and Dean tried to concentrate on anything else but the way Cas’ caught just barely as he slid the pads of his fingers down the outside of his strong arms to his wrists. He had to concentrate on getting the duct tape off, and not the fact that Cas was close enough that Dean could feel his body heat, something addictive that he so desperately wanted to jump into and drown in.

He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, holding himself back from pressing against the angel just inches in front of him. When his fingers could get the thick, silver tape off, he sighed and dropped to his knees, fully aware that he was even closer now than he was before. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to get this damn tape off.” Dean gruffed, holding the tape with both hands and leaning forward to slice it with his teeth. After a few tries, the tape came off and he dropped it to the floor. “There.” Dean braced himself on the wall and stood, only knowing that Cas was turning around because of the shuffle of clothes and the brush of the other man’s arm across his chest as he adjusted.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Dean gave a nervous chuckle, instinctively reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “Anytime.” The silence that blanketed them after the single word was only broken by the soft breathing that filled Dean’s ears and, if he thought hard enough, it was going faster and hotter and filled with grunts of pleasure and ---- _stop_. He cleared his throat, thinking it was just about way past time for an apology. “Look, Cas, I-”

“Who are you going to kill?”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“You said ‘I’m going to kill them’. Who are you going to kill? You know who did this?”

“I-uh… Yeah.”

“Who?”

“It was my brother, Sam. And my best friend, Charlie.” Silence followed and Dean swore he could practically see the confused and annoyed furrowing of Cas’ brows and the slight tilt of his head.

“Why would they lock us in a closet together, Dean?” The tone of voice Cas used reminded Dean of a mother asking her child if they got in the cookie jar, when their face is obviously covered in chocolate and crumbs. He was, however, grateful for the dark, since it covered up the heat crawling up his neck and cheeks.

“I-uh.. Well, I kinda told Charlie what… What happened.”

Castiel was silent for a moment before speaking slowly. “Between us?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Uh-huh… And they saw it fit to stick us in a closet together because…?”

Dean groaned, cursing his stupid loved ones that, really, he hated sometimes, and leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closing. “Because,” he sighed out a long breath. “because they know I’m not going to talk to you about it, and vice versa, unless we have no other choice.”

“And why would they want us to talk about it?”

“Damn it, Cas! We’re not playing twenty questions, okay? That’s just.. That’s what it is, okay?” He could practically feel Cas swell with anger, although he couldn’t see it. The worst part, however, was that he didn’t say anything. He didn’t lash out, or sock him a good one on his jaw. He just stood there, seething in the dark, Dean knew, he could feel it. He balled his own fists and clenched his jaw as inadequacy and frustration bubbled within him. “I’m trying to apologize here!” He grunted, folding his arms, his elbows brushing against Cas’ chest with the motion.

“No. You’re not. You’re explaining to me why I’m locked in a closet with you. Nowhere in there did it sound like you were leading up to an apology.”

“Well I was.” Dean snapped back, sounding less like an annoyed adult, and more like an argumentative child.

“Okay, please do. Apologize.”

Dean could hold it in anymore. He felt something crack and slip right beneath his sternum. The stupid wall he’d been building up so he could hide himself crumbling to dust under Cas’ heat and his tart words. He wanted to apologize, he wanted to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, and he nearly did, but there was one thing he wanted first, and maybe it was something he would come to deeply regret, but at that point in time, he didn’t care. He’d already lost Cas, how could he lose him more?

His hands moved forward, seemingly of their own accord, and gently moved to rest over the sharp, stubbled jaw just a foot in front of him. He felt the air shift from annoyance to tense confusion as he ran the pad of his thumb just under Cas’ cheekbone and leaned forward, tentatively pressing their lips together.

It was warm and soft with harsh stubble and rigid surprise, but Dean didn’t care. It was perfect. Their lips slotted together and he let out a half choked sob as he moved closer, pressing their chests together and crowding Cas against the door. It was everything he’d ever wanted and nothing that would ever be enough. Cas’ hands hovered in the air uncertainly. He could be shoved back and punched, or pulled closer, he didn’t care. All he cared was that he finally got to taste the gentle sweetness of Cas’ lips and feel the dark stubble coating his jaw grinding into his chin. He stood there for a moment, as one would with their first kiss, just lock lips and freeze. After that moment, however, he noticed a weight over his waist and the way Cas’ lips softened beneath his. Cas tipped his head to the side and Dean’s lonely heart lapped up that invitation until it was run dry.

Dean brought one hand around to tangle in the soft dark hair at the back of his assistant’s head, as his free hand trailed down his muscular torso and around his back, pulling them infinitesimally closer and never close enough. He pulled away and kissed again, and again, and again. Desperate and wanting, tasting and testing.

The air in the cramped room settled around them, something softer, hotter, making the room feel smaller. Dean wanted Cas so badly it hurt. Cas was sincere and kind and everything he’d never known he’d wanted, and he’d been right there in front of him all along, and now that he knew he wanted it, it would surely slip through his fingers.

He moved his head and trailed soft pecks down Castiel’s jaw, over the feeling of kissing Velcro, and down to his neck, dully noting as the neck craned so he could reach it better. Cas clutched him, pulling him close, and Dean pulled him back so they anchored each other to the confines of the musty closet. His breath started to pick up in his lungs, matched by Cas’ and instinctively he bucked forward, desperate for friction. Cas moaned softly in his ear, barely louder than a breath, and Dean simply melted into the floorboards, unable to handle that particular level of sexy.

Dean sighed out shakily and kissed back up Cas’ jaw to his lips, wanting to taste more, get closer, move and meld and just be with Cas.

The sweet, kind receptionist who made sure to get him coffee every morning.

The soft, funny man who’d talked with him, trusted him and shared himself.

Dean was cruel, he was toxic and an ass, he knew that, but maybe if he could get Cas to believe he wasn’t… Maybe for the first time in his life he could feel like he was worth a damn.

He pulled away from the kiss, breathless and rather excited, but he didn’t release Cas from his arms. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed, leaning forward to rest their foreheads together. “I was a complete and total jackass for two years and I’m sorry I didn’t see something so great sitting right in front of me. You deserve so much better, you deserve the world, and I would army crawl through a mile of broken glass just to give it to you Castiel.”

And there it was.

The mushy, bleeding organ that generally lay in his chest had been ripped open and laid at Cas’ feet once more. He swallowed, heart hammering and blood rushing in his ears as seconds stretched into an eternity of waiting for a response, Cas’ breath ghosting over his lips in soft puffs.

“I can’t.”

Dean swore his heart stopped and his nerves, which had previously been lit aflame with desire, cooled and died as he shriveled just a touch inside himself. He swallowed several times, Adam’s apple bobbing in the dark, and pulled away, pressing himself against the far wall and as far away from the warmth that was so inviting just moments ago. “Right. Yeah.” He cleared his throat and pulled out his phone, lighting up the screen and calling Sam.

“Hello?”

“Come on, let us out.” Dean responded, voice cracking. Sam seemed to recognize the note of sadness in his tone.

“Yeah, I’ll come right now.”

Dean slipped his phone away and sighed shakily, eyes still closed.

“You could have called them all along?”

“I could’ve, don’t mean they would’ve come though.” He shrugged and folded his arms, sighing shakily and silently cursing himself for being an idiot, for leaving himself vulnerable like that.

Dean squeezed his eyes closed and raised a hand to block out the light flooding the room as the door swung open. By the time he opened them, Cas was gone and Sam was standing in the doorway, looking apologetic enough that it really made Dean itch to punch him. He looked at his stupid brother and stood off the wall, clenching his jaw. With most things, anger was easier than sadness, and what he couldn’t do with Lisa or Cas, maybe he could do with Sam. “What the _fuck_ man?!” Dean shouted, laying his palms on Sam’s chest and shoving him stumbling backward. “What’s your problem?! Who _does_ that?!” He was shaking, his vision blurry and red around the edges. In his fit of rage, he didn’t even notice that the room was quiet, signifying that the party was over.

“Dean.” Jess said softly from somewhere to his left and he looked over, tears welling in his eyes and an angry, sad smile twisting across his face as he saw the round-faced toddler sitting on her hip. His niece, looking up at him with wide, hazel eyes, almost scared.

“Hey gorgeous,” Dean breathed and swallowed, reaching out a hand for her to hold. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be yellin’, huh?” Mary looked at him for a long time before taking his hand. She shifted in Jess’ arms and reached her free hand toward him, which Dean took in invitation and pulled the little girl into his arms, holding her close and resting his head against hers. She rested her own head on his shoulder, soft curls trailing over her back as she hugged him and he hugged her right back. “’m sorry.” He mumbled to no one and anyone as a single tear slipped down his cheek. He felt one large hand over his right shoulder blade, and one smaller one over his left. He squeezed his eyes closed and huffed out a breath through a sad smile. After a moment, another small hand lay on his forearm and he cracked his eyes to see dark red and pale skin, recognizing Charlie immediately. Behind her stood a weathered old man with a beard under a baseball cap. Bobby. Bobby was there.

And there Dean stood, swallowing down his tears and surrounded by the five people he loved most in the world. In that moment he realized that he was never truly alone.


	16. Surprises

It had been two days. Just two days since Dean had tasted paradise and let it slip through his fingers once again. It was Monday, and he had to go back to work. He had decided not to take Ben on Sunday, instead choosing to just sit home in the dark and drown his sorrows in the warm embrace of Jack Daniels. Dean woke up and got himself ready for work, on time, with thankfully no pounding head or signs of hangover, before driving to his sky scraper and pointedly refusing to think about anything that happened on Saturday. He didn’t think about the gentle brush of lips, of the stubble that ground into his chin, or the way Castiel had eventually reciprocated. He didn’t think about his swelling and deflating heart or the warmth that had enveloped him in that one moment of bliss. Dean got out of his car and stepped into the elevator, not thinking about anything other than the work he was walking into. He was going to make himself forget about the blue-eyed beauty...

Who wasn't behind his desk.

Dean frowned, stepping into the lobby as the elevator doors slid closed behind him with a soft ‘ding’. He looked around, brows slowly furrowing in confusion. Two and a half years and Castiel had never been late, let alone miss a day. And here Dean was, alone in his lobby and looking around as though he'd misplaced his keys. Something was wrong.

Dean pulled out his phone and scrolled to the contact that made him hurt just a little bit, but maybe he’d get over that eventually. He brought the phone to his ear, sighing in relief when Castiel picked up on the third ring.

"Good morning, Mr. Winchester.”

“Hey, Cas…tiel.” Dean cleared his throat. “Where the hell are you?”

“Home. I don’t feel well today.”

“Oh. Okay. And you didn’t call me to tell me that because…?”

“I just woke up.”

Dean nodded as he listened, walking through the lobby and into the kitchenette on the far side to pour himself some coffee. Castiel did sound raspy, voice thick with sickness and exhaustion. It made him want to wrap him up in a blanket and feed him chicken soup.

_Stop torturing yourself._

Dean cleared his throat a second time. “Right. Right, yeah. Just stay home and, uh.. Get better.”

“I will.”

“Alright. See you later.” Dean dragged on the conversation awkwardly, not wanting to let go. Not wanting to hang up. Thankfully, Castiel made that decision for him and the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and slipped it in his pocket, making some coffee and getting to work.

* * *

 

Castiel was sick for the whole week, which surprised Dean a great deal, but he had plenty of sick days saved up and he could use them however he pleased. That also left Dean to find himself a replacement receptionist, at least for the time being. He eventually decided on one Bela Talbot, if only because she was the least efficient in sales and barely made quota each month. She was blonde and pretty, he couldn’t deny that, but the way she looked at him with such contempt and distaste, he thought she looked more like a ravenous lion than a saucy minx. He avoided her as much as he had avoided Castiel, used to it by then. She never made him coffee, didn’t tell him good morning without fail, huffed and rolled her eyes when he asked for simple things like copies. It was difficult, and more and more he missed Castiel, although he would deny and squash the thought any time it thought it might pop up and annoy him.

Really, he would be so much better if the angel would get out of his damn head.

* * *

 

He’d thought a lot about what he’d said – when they were friends – and that Friday he signed up to join as a volunteer to the fire department. The next day he had his first round of training and physical tests, which he brought Ben to. The boy just sat on the sidelines and played games, no matter how hard he tried to get him up and running around too.

Due to how well he treated his body over the years, he passed the physical with flying colors and, pending a background check and vigorous training for another week starting Monday, he’d be on call to help out when the need arose.

* * *

 

The training was vicious; lifting, dragging, carrying, climbing, busting down doors, and crawling through tight spaces all in full firefighter gear that bathed him in sweat and left his muscles screaming from exhaustion. He’d wake up, go to Tritech, work, and, immediately after, go to the firehouse to train. It was grueling, but it left him with a feeling of pride, a renewed vigor that made each day that Castiel still didn’t come to work more bearable. Not that his happiness relied on the other man coming to work, of course not. But he would be lying if he said he weren’t getting worried. Castiel had been sick for a week and a half, or at least what was what he said. Dean couldn’t help but wonder if his secretary was planning on just using up his paid sick days and quitting when they were done. Well, he supposed he’d find out in on Friday, two days away.

“Hey, yeah, no, _you_ were great! Teach me how to spider monkey up that wall and I’ll teach you how to bluff at poker!” Dean chuckled as he waved at one of his fellow trainees.

“Hey, Dean!” A gangly kid with a huge nose, beady eyes, and shaggy brown hair jogged up toward him. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, Dean swore. He was tall, like Sam, but had no bulk to him. Spindly. He would’ve never expected in a million years to see someone like that training as hard as him to be a firefighter but, well, there they were.

“Yeah? What’s up Garth?” Dean picked up his duffel and slung it over his shoulder, in the same motion wiping the sweat from his brow that had gathered due to both exertion and the hot sun beating down at him.

“You stayin’ for the game?” The kid bounced on the balls of his feet and grinned.

“Nah, I’m tired. I’m, what, twice your age?” Dean chuckled and reached up, poking his bony chest. “Remember what I told you. Bet every turn, even if it’s a little and you got shit.” He winked and clicked his tongue. “Eventually you’ll win the pot.” He chuckled and turned, walking off. “Or, you’ll lose everything.” He shrugged one shoulder, mumbling under his breath. There was a poker game every night after training to cool down, hang out, and get to know their fellow volunteers and career firefighters. Dean usually stayed, but he really was tired, and he’d decided that he was going to start looking for an actual apartment instead of just staying in the motel until he died from asbestos or some kind of infection.

“Alright. Have a good night, Dean!”

“You too, kid!” Dean gave a half salute, raising his hand to Garth without turning around. He crossed the parking lot, threw his bag in the back, climbed in and started the car before driving off and back to the motel.

He felt… Well, maybe he felt like he was healing. Maybe not seeing Castiel everyday was good. Maybe things were getting easier each time he saw Lisa to get Ben. Maybe, for the first time in a long time, he’d actually be okay.

Maybe things were starting to look up.

* * *

 

The water pounded Dean’s back, easing away the harsh strain of exercise as he leaned his hand against the cool tiled wall and let his head hang. How long had he been in there? Twenty? Thirty minutes? He had no idea. He’d had to twist the knob several times as the hot water started to run out, until it was on the hottest setting, and his fingers were all kinds of pruny. So, maybe that was his answer. He’d been in there for a long ass time.

He breathed dutifully, taking deep breaths of thick, white steam in and blowing them out just as easily. It was like inhaling a warm cloud, and it helped his stinging lungs as well. He was in the bathroom, but behind closed lids he was far away, away from work, training, Lisa, Castiel, his father, Sam. Everyone and everything that was his world was gone and he was just Dean. Just Dean who drank too much because he cared too deeply. Just Dean who gave so much and climbed so far. And, the more he thought about it, and the more he was on his own, the more he came to realize that he knew who that man was again. The more he felt like that man. He turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping a plush towel around his hips and watching for a minute as drops of water leapt from his hair and splashed on the tile beneath his feet. He wiped the condensation from the cracked mirror and smiled softly at himself. It was thin, weak, and tired, but real. He knew that he was starting to get better.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts and his soft smile dissolved into the lines of guarded confusion that crawled over his face. Nobody knew where he was living. Not even Sam or Charlie, and motels didn’t exactly have room service. Which left Dean with one question.

“Who is it?” He called, stepping carefully into the main room. In lieu of answer, another knock sounded at the door, more insistent this time. More urgent.

It could be a robber. A smart robber. Wait for the person to open the door, hold your gun on them, scare them and take what you want. It’s what he would do. No forced entry and, if you’re lucky enough to get something like an old lady, witnesses too scared to say anything.

He scoffed and moved to the nightstand, pulling out John’s Colt and flipping off the safety. No way was he going to be caught unawares by some thug looking to scrape a penny out of some poor sap’s pocket. He moved quickly toward the door and leaned against it, forgetting that he was only in a towel. There was no peephole to look out of, so he spoke again. “One more chance asshole. Who’s there?”

Another knock, following by a quiet ‘please’. The word was muffled, thick, and Dean could barely hear it, but his instincts kicked in. The person sounded in a bad way, and Dean wouldn’t deny them help. Still on guard, his free hand circled around the cool metal knob and turned. He wrenched the door open, standing in the open air and pointing his gun right at…

“Cas??” Dean asked, eyes wide as he quickly lowered the gun. Castiel didn’t even look like himself in the dim light of the hallway. His normally set and stoic shoulders were hunched over, his right hand bracing himself on the wall and his left cradled in a sling, a bit of white plaster from a cast poking out from the end. Dean knew that it wasn’t shadow that cast dark bruises over his swollen eye, and it wasn’t the lighting that looked like dried blood trickled down his chin from his lip. “What the hell happened to you?!” He asked, stepping out into the hallway as panic flapped in his chest like a caged bird. “Are you okay?” He couldn’t stop the questions, even as he slipped under Castiel’s arm and wrapped it around his shoulders; one hand holding his wrist, the other holding him around the back. “What are you doing here? How did you know where I was? Why turn to me?” The filter that usually resided between his brain and mouth seemed to have walked off the job because poor Castiel was breathing raggedly, head hung heavy and eyes shut, but all Dean could do was babble questions into his ear, trying to stave off the anger and panic threatening to escape his chest and envelop him. He got them both into the dingy motel room and shut the door with his foot, not stopping as he brought Cas to the bed and sat him down. He knelt in front, holding Cas’ face and inspecting him, not bothering to hide the worry he was sure painted his own expression. “Who the fuck did this to you?” Was the last question he asked before Castiel’s hand gently enclosed around his wrist, eyes still closed and breathing labored. He opened his mouth to speak and Dean’s heart flipped as he waited for an answer, any kind of answer. Even a ‘screw you’ would be preferable to just listening to him struggle for breath like he’d been beaten on but managed to get away and run.

“Cain…” Castiel finally managed to grate out just before he fell forward, limp and unconscious, into Dean’s arms. Dean grit his teeth together and situated the younger man on the lumpy mattress, getting out a first aid kit and tending to his wounds as he slept. He felt disgust and anger grow and writhe in his belly as he cleaned up the bloodied lip and trailed down to see the extent of the injuries. Bruises like hands over his neck, bites on his shoulders and chest, deep, bloody scratches over his sides. Dean didn’t go any further than cutting open his shirt, since even that was stepping over a line he was sure existed, but he had to see the damage.

He sat awake until late in the night, on the floor where he’d pulled down a few scratchy motel blankets and an extra pillow he’d found, eventually lulled to sleep by Castiel's even breathing and plans for how he could conceivably get away with murder.


	17. Comfort

“Hey, I can't come in today."

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine, just got some-ah... Personal shit to work through."

"Cuz o' Lisa 'n' Ben?"

"No, not 'cause-" Dean growled in frustration. "Look, I'm just... Y'know what? Better just make that the rest of the week. Can you handle that?"

"Yeah yeah, I got it chief. I'll call if there's anything we actually need you for."

"Alright, thanks Benny." Dean hung up his phone and dropped it on the nightstand. He blew out a breath, running his fingers through his hair and looking over Castiel's prone, sleeping form in the pale gray hours of early morning. He didn't sleep so well the night before, tossing and turning on the hard floor as visions of sadistic men carving their names into the angel’s skin danced in his head. Taking turns and using him while he cried out into the darkness.

And, in the end, it was Cain to blame. He'd left those bite marks over Castiel's strong chest and shoulders. He'd scratched his sides raw. Dean didn't even want to think about the damage he'd done below the belt. He paced back and forth, bare feet scuffing over the thin carpet with the repetitive motion. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything in a day and a half. He didn't have any food in the room and, while he could go to the diner down the street, he didn't want to leave Castiel alone for that long.

He walked to the small bathroom and ran the cold water, splashing his face with it several times before scrubbing it dry with a towel. He came back out to the main room and looked at Cas, face peaceful as he snored quietly. Dean grabbed his phone and dialed a familiar number. One he’d dialed many times when he needed help or cleaning up his own fight wounds. He brought the phone to his ear and blew out a breath as he listened to it ring, anticipation growing with each high pitched sound.

“What?”

“Sorry, did I wake you up from your beauty sleep?”

“Oh shut it. Whaddaya want?”

Dean chuckled nervously and leaned against the wall, facing the bed. “I need a favor. Can you bring me some food? I’m watching over a – a friend today. He’s in a bad way.” He bit his lip as silence filtered from the other end of the line and he could practically hear Bobby narrowing his eyes.

“What happened to ‘im?”

“His, uh…” Dean cleared his throat. “His boyfriend beat him up pretty good. He showed up on my doorstep last night.”

More silence.

“-But, I mean, if you’re busy, don’t-d-don’t worry about it, I can just order something. Yeah, probably should’ve done that in the first place, I don’t know why I even-“

“Quit yappin’, I’ll bring you your damn food. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Um, actually, can you bring it to the Days motel? Room 128? It’s where I’ve been staying since me and Lisa split.”

A pause. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.”

“Thanks Bobby, I owe you.”

“Yeah you do.”

Dean chuckled as the line went dead and he pocketed his phone, turning to look over at Cas once again. His breathing seemed to have eased, and he looked peaceful, but as the light filtered in through the filmy window, the bruise over his eye was worse, the split in his lip deeper. Dean sighed and walked over, slowly sitting until he was perched on the edge of the bed. He reached up and gently pushed the thick hair off his receptionist’s forehead with a sigh. As he pulled away, his thumb followed the gentle curve of his cheekbone and temple before he stood again. “I’m sorry Cas.” He said honestly to the cream carpet, darker in some spots with unidentified stains. “You don’t deserve what happened.” He shook his head and moved to the floor, crossing his legs under him and placing his laptop in his lap to look for apartments, albeit distractedly.

* * *

 

A knock came at the door not half an hour later and Dean started as he was ripped from his blank stare at his employee sleeping on his bed, having gotten distracted from his search for an apartment. Cas was still sleeping, and Dean wondered what happened to make him sleep so damn long. And yet, at the same time, he _really_ didn't want to know.

Dean walked over to the door and slipped outside, meeting Bobby in the hallway and rubbing his neck sheepishly. "Hey, thanks Bobby." He pointed to the brown paper bag in the weathered old man’s hands and met his gaze. He wasn’t sure why, but the emotion behind Bobby’s blue eyes seemed hardened, analytical and something else Dean couldn’t place his finger on.

“So, yer friend got beat up? How’s he doin’?” Bobby handed the bag over and Dean took it gratefully, blowing out a breath and looking over his shoulder at the door.

“He’s slept all night and most of this morning.” He looked back and shrugged. “I’m just letting him sleep as long as he needs to.”

Bobby nodded slowly, silent for a moment as he looked between Dean and the door. “If you needed some place to stay-”

Dean shook his head. “No, it wasn’t like that, Bobby. I just-” He sighed and looked at the ground for a moment. “-I just needed some place away from everyone but… Still familiar.”

Bobby nodded again, knowingly. “I get it. You need somethin’, you holler at me okay?” He smiled and reached up, laying a large hand on Dean’s bicep. “’N’ if y’ever need someone to talk to,” he shrugged and pulled his hand away, grabbing the brim of his ball cap and lifting it up to scratch the scalp beneath it. “You know my number.” He offered Dean a warm, almost sad, smile and turned on his heel.

Dean wasn’t sure why his eyes watered as he watched the old man walk back down the hall. He wasn’t sure why his heart wrenched and every molecule of his being screamed at him to tell Bobby about his… tendencies. But a voice in the back of his head that sounded an awful lot like his father called him a fag, a fairy, and told him that he was just confused, stupid, or both. Finally, Dean tore his eyes from Bobby’s retreating figure and turned away, looking at the door once again before pushing it open and stepping through. Maybe Bobby would be okay with it, but his ‘uncle’ had been friends with John first, so how did he know he wouldn’t react the exact same way that John would have? Dean scoffed and shook his head at the hypotheticals, pulling himself back into the situation at hand and closing the door behind him.

“I need to go.”

Dean’s head shot up, brows raised in surprise as a deep voice from within the room rumbled around him. “Cas, you’re awake!” He noted, setting the bag down quickly and rushing over to where the other man was standing by the bed. His hands immediately went to fuss over the younger man, but as the other’s eyes filled with terror and he recoiled, Dean stepped back to give him some room, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. “How’re you feeling?”

Cas huffed a half laugh and shook his head, carding a hand through his hair and looking at the ground. “Like I got hit by a truck.” He sighed, hands curling around his stomach, one stretching up over his chest. “You took off my shirt.” He murmured, looking at the ground.

Dean swallowed, hands hanging limply in the air as a strange form of shame and guilt came over him. He watched Castiel curl into himself, wanting nothing more than to comfort him, but he didn’t think he’d react well if he were to just pull him close. So, Dean stayed put. “I-I had to see how bad it was.” He pointed to a bandage. “I cleaned ‘em up. I’m sorry, I should’ve waited or something. I know I crossed the line and I shouldn’t’ve I just-just-just—” He sighed and looked back up at Cas sadly. “You were hurt..” He finished lamely and dropped his hands, shrugging his shoulders. As the moments of silence stretched on between them he felt frustration bubble within him. It wasn’t _him_ who’d shown up at his boss’s room after essentially telling him to fuck off. It wasn’t _him_ who’d shown up half dead and begging for help. It wasn’t _him_ who’d gotten with a guy who beat him, and _stayed_. He didn’t really blame Cas for any of that, but he couldn’t help feeling a little upset. After everything that had happened between them, after getting close and falling apart then being sucked down under a current of confusion and conflicted emotions, only to end up together and alone once again… Dean wasn’t sure his poor, fried mind could handle much else. He’d pushed the angel from his mind only to have him resurface twice, and it was all he could do to keep from both screaming and pulling Cas close.

He felt like the universe was yo-yoing him, but the thread tossing him back and forth was bear and threatening to snap.

Dean opened his mouth to say as much, to tell Cas to just fuck off if he didn’t want his help, frustration boiling over and flooding his veins. He took in a breath and felt it immediately rush from his lungs, anger draining as quickly as it had come. Castiel had rushed forward in a split second and pressed against his chest, wrapping his arms around his back and shuddering. Dean was surprised to say the least, but he slowly wound his arms around Cas’ shoulders and pulled him infinitesimally closer, leaning his cheek against the back of his head as Cas rested his own cheek against Dean’s shoulder. The man in his arms shook, trembling, tired and… Well, probably scared as all hell.

Dean sighed and let his eyes slide close, rubbing soothing circles over the soft, taut skin between Cas’ shoulder blades. “It’s okay, Cas. I gotcha.” He whispered, holding Cas even more tightly as the ragged sound of sobs filled the air in the room. “I won’t let nothin’ happen to you, okay? I swear. He’ll never lay his hand on you ever again.” He promised, and he meant it. His thoughts flicked to the colt and he clenched his jaw.

He would never let Cain hurt Cas _ever_ again.

“Thank you,” Cas breathed, clutching Dean tightly. Dean sighed as his heart broke, the desperation lacing Cas’ voice too much for him to handle. Slowly, he inched them toward the bed and sat, still holding Castiel close, unable to let him go. He didn’t want to rush anything, didn’t want to make Cas uncomfortable, but he had to know.

“What the hell happened?” Dean’s fingers made their way into Cas’ thick hair as the latter sucked in a sharp breath. “I mean, when we were texting you said he was getting rough, then you show up and, Cas, that’s not just rough. That’s-that’s _abuse_.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.” Castiel informed him sternly and Dean bit his lip, nodding. He noticed with some relief, however, that Castiel was still against him, still holding him and allowing himself to be held.

It was a modest victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Dean fell silent, listening to Cas’ breathing and matching the rise and fall of his chest. They just sat there, holding each other as the sun rose around them, taking solace and comfort in one another.


	18. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so sorry about the month delay. I should have warned you that I sometimes suffer from crippling writer's block. That, coupled with real life things like friends getting married and role playing on another forum have left me with all the excuses. Will try to crank them out more quickly from now on, and thanks for your patience! <3's!

They ate what Bobby had brought in silence, Castiel looking solemnly down at his half burger and fries as he ate, Dean looking solemnly at Castiel. Silence had fallen around them, only broken by the crinkle of wrapper. Dean wanted to ask, wanted to know, but he didn’t want to push. Not when he’d gotten so far from where it had all fallen apart. In the end, it was Castiel who broke the silence, rough voice laced with anger and a combination of underlying guilt and embarrassment.

“It was okay at first.” He began, chewing on a soggy fry as he stared at the motel floor, his gaze distant and far away. “At first it was just kind of… It was during sex. Spankings. He’d slap me around a little.” He shrugged. “I neither liked nor disliked it.”

Dean had finished his burger and was fiddling with the wrapper. They sat on the bed, about a half foot apart, and the older man just kept himself from pulling Cas closer. That single line, dripping from the lips of the older man across his desk seemingly eons ago kept bouncing back and forth between his temples. _“You won’t really know until you sink into a nice ass as tight as that one.”_ It made him shudder, something slimy slipping under his skin and wanting to simply wreck him. He was pulled back to the present as Castiel continued, voice devoid of emotion, so hollow it made Dean’s stomach curl.

“He started getting more… Creative.” Castiel shrugged again, the sling shifting around his shoulder. “But never seriously hurt me. Bruises fade.” He sighed softly and paused long enough to swallow. “He held my arm behind my back Sunday while he… Against the counter. It snapped at the elbow.” He motioned vaguely to the sling. “That’s why I called in. He wanted me to stay home, but I wanted to go to work. He won, as usual. It was the night before last that he found my phone and scrolled through my texts. He found the ones from you and I’ve-I’ve never seen someone so _angry_.” His voice turned breathy and Dean’s heart coiled further in his chest. “We were up most the night, much as I plead just to go to sleep, he said I had to be punished. So he did. Repeatedly.” Finally, vivid blues turned up from the floor, glassy with wet as they fixed on the wall. “When he woke up in the morning, we went again. He wouldn’t let me be alone, not for five seconds. He was in the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen, I swear to God he was everywhere at once and he just _wouldn’t leave me alone.”_ Cas’ voice choked as tears started spilling down his cheeks. “We were in the kitchen, over the counter again, and he grabbed my hair. I saw the frying pan, so I grabbed it and hit him with it. He might be dead for all I know, but I pulled up my pants and I ran. There was nowhere I could turn where he wouldn’t know where I was… So I came here.”

Dean sat in utter shock, anger dulled simply because he couldn’t believe anyone could treat another person like that. Oh, but when the flames bounced back to life inside him, they were hotter than before, lapping over every nerve in his body. Dean’s jaw worked and he looked away from the broken angel on the bed, mulling over what had happened, the visions it placed in his brain enough to leave him queasy. Finally, he stood, the bed squeaking behind him. “We need to get you to the police station.” He said firmly.

“No.”

“What?”

“No. I can’t.. There’s no reason to.”

“Cas, that’s _bullshit_! He beat the fuck out of you, he broke your arm, he _raped_ you!” Dean’s arms flung wide to emphasize his point. Castiel went silent for a long time before speaking.

“He didn’t.” The receptionist said quietly, making Dean huff and fold his arms over his chest.

“Did you want it?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then it was rape.”

“He didn’t _rape_ me, Dean. Men don’t get raped.”

“Yes. They do.” Dean sighed and ran an agitated hand through his hair, moving to kneel at Cas’ feet, looking up at him. “Cas, please, I’m beggin’ you to listen to me, okay? If we don’t go to the station _right now_ and tell them what happened, he’ll get there first and spin it like he was the victim. We don’t want that.” He was dismayed as Castiel laid his hands on his shoulders and pushed him back so he could stand. Dean stood along with him, looking at him pleadingly.

“I can’t, okay? He was angry, and rightfully so.”

“No. It wasn’t right in any way, shape, or form. People don’t _do_ that Cas.”

Castiel’s head hung, back facing Dean, and it was all he could do not to grab the younger man’s shoulders and shake some damn sense into him. “… He loves me.”

Dean’s heart shattered at the broken note Castiel’s voice took, the way it sounded unsure but hopeful. He’d said those same words in that same tone before, when he was convincing himself that staying with Lisa was okay, even though she cheated. But, deep down, he knew that his ex had lost all feeling for him long ago. “No, Cas. He doesn’t. People don’t treat the ones they love like that.” He said softly, surprised when Cas whirled around, anger streaking his scared, sad face.

“And what the fuck would _you_ know about love? You were married, you pig, but you’re off blowing strangers in bathrooms and screwing the town bike in your _office_ , and don’t look surprised, because those walls are fucking thin and you’re loud.”

Dean swallowed, taken aback. Ouch. “I-”

“No, you know what? Don’t speak. Don’t say another damn word, because you have nothing worth saying. I don’t want to hear it. I mean, is it really a surprise she left you?” Dean flinched back at the venom in Cas’ voice, the tart words. He knew what was happening, Cas was just lashing out at Dean because he had no one else, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. “I mean, why wouldn’t she? Your head is so far up your fucking ass that you couldn’t remember my name for two years! You made me do your dry cleaning, take your kid to and from school! I’ve met your ex-wife, she’s nice! What the hell did _you_ do to drive her away??”

Dean crumpled. Just a little, but the words hit right on target. He didn’t look at the blazing sapphire chips, peering through his skin and directly into his soul. Of course, one stupid kiss and apology did not go back and rewrite all his fuck-ups. It didn’t even begin the journey that patched up whatever may have been between them at one point or another. He stayed silent, feeling more pried open than he had ever wanted to be. Cas had managed to take his biggest insecurities and throw them back at him, slapping him in the face. And the hits kept coming.

“That’s what I thought.” Castiel turned for the door and grabbed the knob. “Don’t tell me what love is, because never in your pitiful life have you experienced it.”

But he had.

He had fallen so hard for Lisa in the beginning, and he still loved her. No amount of space or time could rid him of the eroded piece of his heart she still held in her soft hands. He looked at Castiel, finally finding his voice. “Think what you want,” he croaked, shifting on tired feet. “About me, about what I’ve been through, it’s fine. But if you leave right now, if you go back to him, he will kill you. Not immediately, and maybe not even physically, but that fire inside you will die each time he touches you. You can tell yourself he loves you after he leaves you bleeding on the floor. You can tell yourself he cares after he starts seeing other people. But you’ll never be right, because he doesn’t. Soon, you’ll be a shell of yourself, so angry and full of hurt that you’ll get bitter, empty, and you’ll stick your head so far up your ass you won’t even take the time to remember your receptionists’ name. You won’t remember who you were before he started hurting you, and it will take you years to smile again.” Dean spoke slowly, quietly, watching Castiel’s muscular, bruised back as he breathed, head down as he listened. That was a good sign, he was listening. “Then, one day, he’ll do something to tip the scales.” Dean continued, taking a single step forward. “Whether that’s leaving you with nothing or beating you half to death, I don’t fucking know. But he’ll do something that will leave you with only one option, and that’s to stick the barrel of a gun down your throat and pull the trigger.” It was so disgustingly real, the words so moldy from the darkest recesses of his depression that he could hardly believe they were actually exiting his mouth. He watched as Castiel looked to the side, giving him just a silhouette of his face. “If you’re anything like me, you’ll be too much a damn coward to pull the trigger. But you’re not a coward, Cas.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you taste like honey. I know you like bees and your mom named you after an angel. I know you like to paint and your favorite book is Don Quixote, which you read when you think I can’t see you.” Dean swallowed and took another step, voice husky and tired eyes pricking with tears. The most real he’d been in years and it was to Cas’ back. Maybe that made it easier. “I know you want to travel the world, but, no matter how much you hate your boss, you won’t leave your job. I know you have a twin brother, and you were a miracle baby.” Another step. “I know you’re dedicated, and you’re not afraid of anything. Which is why I can’t let you walk out that door, because if I let you slip through my fingers one more goddamn time, I won’t be able to live with myself. Especially if I send you off to your death.”

The silence echoed around them once again as Dean stared at Cas’ rigid back, one hand still on the knob. If his thoughts made sound he’d be screaming right now. If he gave in to them, he’d beg for Cas to stay. The seconds ticked by around them, only known by the steady rhythm of Dean’s heart in his ears. When Castiel spoke again, it was a gravelly rumble, carrying over the empty space between them.

“You put a gun in your mouth. Why didn’t you pull the trigger? Why haven’t you killed yourself since?” He turned to face Dean, expression guarded, but curious. The door closed behind him with a soft tick and Dean let out the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding.

That still left him with the question hanging between them.

“I found something to live for.” He’d already bared his soul, what was the point in keeping secrets now? Dean shrugged and offered a half, sad smile.

“What was that?” Castiel asked slowly, blue eyes narrowed.

Dean sighed softly and shook his head. It was the number on the receipt that had pulled him through the second worst time in his life, and the stupid man on the other end of the phone couldn’t even put two and two together. “Maybe that’s a story for another time.” He said softly and looked up, meeting Cas’ gaze. “Now, are you going to let me take you to the police station, so we can make sure this fucker never hurts you again, or do I get to watch you leave again?”

Silence, so long Dean thought he would refuse again, but his heart lifted when Cas’ head moved slowly, up and down. “Okay.”

Dean thanked his lucky star and grabbed his jacket, slipping it around his shoulders before placing a hoodie around Castiel’s. He stepped into his shoes and led his receptionist from the motel room.

Because, sometimes, even saviors needed saved.


	19. Settling Down

“It was… Ten years ago.” Dean nodded as he stuffed another ketchup-doused fry in his mouth. “That was the first time that I know of that she cheated on me. She got pregnant with Ben, and I knew it wasn’t mine. We stayed together because…” He sighed quietly, gaze settled on the ceramic mug at the tip of his blunt fingernails. “Because I loved her. Because I thought we could make it work. I mean, I was _wrong_ -” He chuckled, though the sound was hollow. “-but I guess that’s what I get for being optimistic.” Long, callused fingers wrapped around the handle of the mug and lifted it to his lips, steaming, bitter coffee sliding down his throat as he looked over the rim of the mug at two curious, sad blue eyes across the table.

The week had been busy, to say the least. Between lawyers, litigation, finding an apartment and convincing Castiel to stay with him – to keep him safe, of course – working, moving, and still being on call for the fire department, this was the first time they’d been able to take a moment to just… Talk. Something they both desperately needed.

He’d offered to take Cas anywhere he wanted to go after they went to the police station, shit he probably would’ve flown them both to France right then and there had the other asked, but after something so intrusive as a rape kit, the receptionist just wanted to sleep. And, in Dean’s bed back at the motel, he did. That was when Dean had gotten most of his stuff done; he’d set up an apartment to move into, told Sam, Charlie, and Bobby his new address, and started buying furniture.

Sleeping on the floor was _really_ starting to hurt.

They’d moved in just the day before, and were finally able to take a breath. Dean set down his mug, letting the silence between them only be interrupted by the bustle of life in the diner. The bruises along Cas’ neck and eye had yellowed, but the swelling was down and they were healing quite nicely. Although, the dark bags under his eyes were new, Dean noticed. He hadn’t been sleeping, and what he’d been able to get was fitful, Dean had heard it.

“You said… You said you almost killed yourself, but you never told me why you didn’t.” Castiel pointed out, his good hand holding his half eaten burger.

Dean could’ve groaned, knowing that question was going to come back around sometime, but he wasn’t thinking it would be right then. “I told you, I found something to live for.” He sighed, trying to sidestep it as easily as he could. He wasn’t ready for Cas to know the answer to that question just yet, if only because he couldn’t stand the thought of being brushed off or left in the dust. “Just… What about you? What made you change your mind?”

Cas narrowed his eyes at the blatant change of topic, but answered anyway. “You were right.” He shrugged one shoulder, a pickle falling from his sandwich at the motion. “If I stayed there with him, I’d die, and I’m not ready for that. I still have to travel the world, if my jackass boss will ever give me the time off I need.” The corner of Cas’ lips tipped up in a playful smirk and Dean’s hand thumped over his chest, his jaw dropping in mock offense.

“Hey, at least _your_ jackass boss is one seriously sexy man.”

Cas just shrugged his shoulder, mirth dancing in his eyes as he purposefully didn’t answer.

A new tactic, then. “At least he gives good head?”

“Now _that_ , I can agree with.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head and returning his attention to his food, feeling lighter than he’d felt in years. He adjusted in his seat, foot brushing Cas’ as he did so. “Oops, sorry.” He mumbled, picking up a fry and biting it. He turned his attention to the window as he swallowed down the greasy salt potato, watching the life outside. The life that had no idea what had happened between him and his receptionist, the rollercoaster they’d been on, but that was okay. His head whipped back as he felt a nudge against his foot, heart melting at the pink coloring the cheeks beneath raven hair and celestial blue eyes. The corner of his mouth tipped up and he nudged back.

 

The apartment was huge, at least the size of the upper floor of his old house, with a row of windows that stood proud against the living room wall and overlooked the harbor. Dean moved to the master bedroom and set his box down in the corner, along with the duffel and he hung up the suits in the closet. Maybe this was his turn around, maybe this was the good that came after the bad and life was making up for the shitstorm he’d been through. He was living with his receptionist, which was bad form on the business front, but he’d deal with that if and when it ever got to the point of needing dealt with. Much as he liked the idea of the possibility of a relationship between him and Cas, there were a few things stopping him. The pain both of them had faced and the idea of anything more than mutual domesticity scared him as much as elated him. Right now it was just for protection. Protection Castiel desperately needed. They hadn’t seen Cain, and apparently he hadn’t gone to the police station as Dean had first anticipated, but it was no longer a battle of right and wrong, it was a battle of money, and Dean would be damned if they’d lose. Cain had gotten the best lawyer in New York, so Dean got the best lawyer in the northern hemisphere: Sam Winchester.

He sighed and stepped back from the closet, turning to see Cas in the doorway and he jumped. “Sheesh, Cas. You creep around like a ninja.”

“My apologies.”

Dean shrugged and smiled, looking over the room with the brand new bed in the middle and back. “So, since my bed got here before yours did, you can sleep on it and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“I don’t think-”

“I need to break in that couch. Besides, I want to be closer to the door.” He moved to his bag and withdrew the Colt, checking to make sure the safety was on before straightening and nodding grimly to Cas. Behind him, through the shade-less window, the sun lit up the room with the dusky orange of sunset. “I’m gonna go take a shower, okay? You can make yourself comfortable.” He smiled and brushed past his receptionist, the smell of aftershave and fabric softener heavy in his nostrils, making him yearn for more. Unfortunately, there was no way he was going to push his luck. No way he was going to risk scaring off the flighty Angel, much as he wanted to kiss him until his lips went numb. Cas had agreed to stay with him, had agreed to let him purchase things he needed like clothes so he didn’t have to go back to Cain’s, and Dean wouldn’t put a toe over the line and risk all of that.

He was being patient because he knew Castiel was special. Castiel was someone worth the wait, even if he was terrified of a relationship right then.

Dean sighed contentedly as the heat from the water seeped into his pores and pulled out every stress from his core. Behind closed lids, he remembered the look of knowing pride that had pulled at Cas’ features when he told him that he’d started volunteering at the fire station.

_“I told you it was a good idea.”_

_“Yeah, so?”_

_“Say it.”_

_“Say what?”_

_“That I have the best ideas.”_

_“You don’t.”_

_“Better than self-ironing pants.”_

_“Hey, I’d fund that research!” A raised brow and a sigh. “Fine, you have the best ideas.”_

He chuckled, breaking the sound of the rushing water. He’d been doing that so much more lately, laughing, smiling, feeling freer than he had in far too long. A knock pulled him from his reverie and he raised a brow, wiping his hands down his face to rid it of water and soap before poking his head around the shower curtain. “Cas?” The door creaked open and Cas’ head popped in, looking anywhere but where Dean was.

“I have to use the restroom.”

“Go ahead.” The feeling of another presence in the bathroom while he was in the shower brought a chill to his spine, a sinking to his stomach. Last time that had happened, Lisa had left him. He shook his head quickly to rid himself of such thoughts and dipped his head under the water, closing his eyes as he rinsed his hair, the sound of the shower drowning out the sound of his roommate relieving himself.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” Dean lathered his hair and tipped his head under the waterfall showerhead to keep the soap from his eyes. Not long after, he stepped out, wrapping a towel around his hips and stepping out to see Cas waiting patiently. “You gonna shower too?”

“I was planning on it.”

Dean stepped out of the way and Castiel went into the bathroom, not noticing as Dean watched after him longingly. He sighed and went to the bedroom to dry and dress in sweats and an old t-shirt. He picked up his comforter and pillow that he’d bought for the motel room and went into the living room, draping them over the back of the black microfiber sectional he’d bought and unwrapped just earlier that day. It was just as he was about to sit down that he heard something deep and melodic coming from the bathroom. With curious, furrowed brows, Dean crept to the closed door and leaned on the door jamb to get a better listen.

“I don't know why nobody told you, how to unfold your love. I don't know how someone controlled you, they bought and sold you.”

Dean’s heart caught in his throat at the torn note in Cas’ voice, the soulful way he sang sending chills up his spine.

“I look at the world and I notice it's turning, while my guitar gently weeps. With every mistake we must surely be learning, still my guitar gently weeps.”

With a sigh, he leaned his head back against the wood, eyes sliding shut. He could hear the choked sound in Cas’ impossibly deep voice, the lump in his throat mirrored across the closed door. Heart thudding against his ribs at the hurt in his voice, the pain that was reminiscent of something he’d been through not too long ago. He pulled himself from the wall, the last verse and chorus of the song lost the further he moved away. Hair still damp, he laid down on the couch, grabbing his phone to set some alarms when a thought came to mind. Thumbs moving quickly, he shot out a text.

 

 _SMS Message to Angel_  
8:57P 6/23/16  
“Hey, I’m here for you. Any time you need me, I promise.”

It was the first text he’d sent the not-so-mysterious man since he’d sent that awful autocorrect blunder, and it felt like a tipping point of some sort. He closed his eyes and got comfy on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes and the other rested off the couch and on the floor. He sighed, only peeking out from under his arm when the padding of feet let him know that Cas had finished with his shower. He watched him go past in a towel, rivulets of water following the gentle planes and angles of his body, the scabbed scratches on his sides and whip marks on his back. Once the angel was out of view, Dean settled down once again to go to sleep, his phone and the colt on the floor next to him, just in case.


	20. Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there really any way I can apologize for making you wait for 5 months? Probably not, but I really, truly am sorry. I was stuck because I was trying to force it and hurry it along so that you guys weren't constantly be getting let down. But it couldn't be forced, so I ended up erasing half of what I'd written, but blah blah logistics. Again, hella sorry, and I hope you enjoy.

**_…I look at you all, see the love there that’s sleeping...  
…While my guitar gently weeps…_ **

_Dean was in a musky room, Castiel by his side. In front of them, on a stage, sat a black man, soulfully strumming his guitar and singing to all the lonely hearts in the audience._

**_…I look at the floor, and I see it needs sweeping…  
…Still my guitar gently weeps…_ **

_Lisa was in the far corner of the room, canoodling with Brady. He knew Ben was around somewhere, but he couldn’t see him._

**_...I don’t know why nobody told you, how to unfold your love…_ **

_Bobby strolled in, looking between him and Cas with a raised brow. He needed to tell him. He needed to tell him that he was falling for the man sat next to him._

**_…I don’t know how someone controlled you. They bought and sold-so-old yo-ou…_ **

_Lisa was suddenly beside him, arms over his chest as if he belonged to her. In a way, he did. He looked over at Cas, only just then noticing the massive ebony wings protruding from his back, casting shadows on the floor. Blue eyes locked with green, his fingers itching to throw Lisa off and wrap Cas in his arms instead._

**_…I look at the world, and I notice it’s turning…  
…While my guitar gently weeps…_ **

_He could feel Lisa’s fingers, suddenly talons, gripping harder and digging their way under his skin. Still, he just stared at Castiel, mouth open as a silent cry of pain exited his lips. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. The angel’s brow creased in confusion._

**_…With every mistake, we must surely be learning…_ **

_Castiel looked back at him, feathers rustling and stretching to block out a light save for a single lamp, illuminating him from behind in a mock halo. One masculine hand stretched toward him, offering him a way out, offering him help, but Lisa dragged him down as soon as he went to reach for it._

**_…Still my guitar gently weeps…_ **

_Bobby grabbed ahold of him, his father, Brady, dragging him down into the shadowy depths of the floor. Their strength, combined with Lisa’s, enough to pull him from the angel looking at him sadly, hand still outstretched. He screamed, clawing forward, fingers brushing the air just at the tips of Castiel’s but not close enough to grab hold. The dark pressed in on him, excruciatingly painful and he screamed but no sound came out. Blue eyes and all was black._

Dean woke with a start, wiping the sweat that had formed on his brow. He swallowed, mouth and throat dry, as he pushed himself up to sit. One glance out the window let him know that it was still well before sunlight, and the coolness of the apartment told him that the sweat wasn’t from being too hot. With a sigh, he brought the heels of his palms into his eyes to rub the sleep away, feet rested on the plush carpet of his new apartment.

It was as he looked up to stand and grab some coffee that he caught a shadow out of the corner of his eye. Quick as a flash, Dean grabbed the Colt and aimed, dropping a knee to the floor. As his eyes adjusted, however, he set the gun down, heart racing in his chest. “Jeez, Cas, don’t _scare_ me like that!” He bit, rubbing his hand over his forehead. As much as the other male’s presence was welcomed, he _had_ just woken from a nightmare to something looming over him as he slept.

“My apologies.”

Dean sighed, sitting back on the couch and looking up at the still shirtless receptionist, noting how the lines of his body were accentuated in shadow. He shook his head, relaxing against the cushions. “It’s fine.” He paused, glancing over as Cas came to sit beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth from his arm. “You okay?”

Cas nodded slowly, facing straight forward. “I heard you muttering, and I couldn’t sleep.” He shrugged, looking at his fingers. Dean kept his hands to himself, wanting to wrap his arm around the blue-eyed angel beside him. He knew he hadn’t been sleeping, but hadn’t addressed it because, well, it wasn’t exactly his business.

A long sigh and Dean nodded, admitting to the muttering, the residual effects of the nightmare still clinging to him. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what it meant. Silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft sound of breath and the ever-present, though muted, traffic sounds of New York City below. He let it stay quiet for such a very long time, far too long, before he grunted and stood. He only needed three to four hours of sleep a night anyway. “Wan’ some coffee?” He grumbled, voice thick with drowsiness.

“No.”

Well, okay then. Shrugging, the older man padded into the kitchen, flipping on the switch as he entered to illuminate the room around him and only winced a little as bright stabbed his eyes.. Keurigs had been made by God himself, he swore. With a quick flip and the press of two buttons, coffee spewed into the mug he’d placed underneath, thick and smelling of relief.

“What were _you_ dreaming about?”

Dean glanced up from where he’d been eyeing the steady drip of thin brown liquid and immediately regretted it. The light was harsh, casting shadow onto every line, every faint scar, and accentuating the dark bags under Cas’ eyes. “Uh,” he began eloquently, looking back to the coffee and rubbing a callused hand over the back of his neck. “Just a nightmare, y’know? Can’t remember.”

Oh, but he definitely could.

One half-hearted glance up and it was obvious that the younger man didn’t believe him either. He’d been right all along as it turned out. From that moment in the bathroom stall while playing psychiatrist, Cas had been right. It was definitely easier to talk to someone with a certain degree of anonymity. There was no judging, no glares, no raised brows or disbelieving scoffs. It was just him and the truth with someone listening and helping.

_“…give a man a mask and he will tell you the truth…”_

Or maybe he could take a moment to full remove head from rear-end and just talk like Sam always wanted him to. Cas had always helped before. Grabbing his mug, Dean nodded toward the sliding door that led off the kitchen and he moved onto the balcony. The moon was out, large and resting over the skyscrapers, casting a ghostly glow over the city that never slept. A deep breath of inner-city air and Dean took a sip of the coffee, not looking at the body that had joined him outside. “My dad was always goin’ on about fags on TV,” he felt the bristle next to him, the shift in Cas’ stance, but he didn’t note on it. “I always thought he was onto somethin’ you know? Like, maybe guys who liked guys were crazy or that they were confused or greedy or whatever.” Even just saying that was like taking a Dremmel to his teeth and slowly removing the enamel. He cracked his neck and leaned against the wrought iron rail as he looked down eighteen flights at the harbor. “So, when I got older ‘n’ I started seein’ guys like… Y’know.” He shrugged. “I thought somethin’ was wrong with me. I hid it.” He washed down the vile words with coffee, studying the way the moon shuddered against the rippling water. “I got older and I still hid it, but it was like this gaping hole inside me, like I was missing something. So I started collectin’ shit like gay magazines and hiding them when me and Sam got our first apartment together. He found one and, well, that’s how I ended up at Drachma.”

Another drink of bitter coffee passed through his lips and he swallowed, shaking his head before continuing. “But that’s not even my point. My point is that I grew up thinking something was wrong with me because I liked how guy’s bodies looked just as much as I liked girl’s bodies. His best friend, my uncle Bobby, probably thinks the same why, so I haven’t told him. Far as I know, only Sam and Charlie know, and, well, you too I guess.” He lost momentum and fell into silence. In the distance, an ambulance sounded and he turned his ear toward the sound. While it felt good to let it all hang out, it was also so strange and sat in the air like a rock, pinching his nerve endings shut as he waited for a response.

“And what does that have to do with your dream?”

Oh right, that was where he’d been going with that. “Well, my dad was there, Lisa, Brady, and Uncle Bobby, and they were all pulling me down and I couldn’t breathe or scream.” He left out the bit about his angel savior on purpose. “I know what it means, it’s pretty damn straight forward. Don’t mean I like it though.” Another stretch of silence and he felt Cas shuffle just a touch closer, close enough he could feel the heat from his arm.

“I have a recurring dream that Cain finds me. I’m running through a house I don’t recognize trying to get away, but with every step I can feel him getting closer. Every step I can feel him gaining on me, and I’m searching every room and trying desperately to find you, but you’re not there.”

It took all of Dean’s willpower not to go completely and totally slack-jawed at the description. His heart lurched, reaching for Cas in such a profound way that even he couldn’t understand. He tried to wrap his mind around the fact that Cas had a recurring nightmare where he was actually looking for _him_. That he couldn’t find him wasn’t the point, it was that he was looking. He swallowed, finally looking over at the angel’s hand on the rail, thin fingers curled around the metal. “… Why’re you looking for me?” He asked quietly, guarded, but hopeful. He finally dragged his gaze up the shorter man’s arm to his shoulder, up the side of his neck and to study his profile. Piercing blue eyes fringed by long black lashes stared at the bustling city. Dark shaggy hair went every direction above the crease in his brow from where he was constantly frowning or furrowing his brows in confusion. Full, chapped lips were bordered by dark stubble under a long nose and above a sharp jaw. He was, in a word, beautiful.

“Because you’re safety.” Finally, those celestial blues flicked over to him, calm beneath the weight of the conversation, seemingly unaware of the weight it both placed on Dean and lifted from his shoulders. Against his will, his lips curled into a grin, teeth illuminated by the moon, and he chuckled so quietly it was barely a breath.

He couldn’t speak, could hardly think. Giddiness still bounced around his nerves, ricocheting and shooting off fireworks in his head. He was safety. He made Cas feel safe. Setting the mug on the rail, his hands moved forward slowly, fingertips grazing the soft, taut skin of the younger man’s stomach. He hesitated, waiting to be pushed away or pulled away from, but Cas didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at Dean like he meant something and it was more than he could take. With apparent permission, his palms slid around to Cas’ sides and around his back, tugging their bodies together.

Women were soft, all curves and chest, but men were angular, all flat planes and sharp contours. Men’s bodies were built to be leaned on, to provide strength, and Dean took that strength as his receptionist melded with him, arms winding around his neck – save for the cast, which rested heavily on his shoulder - and soft sigh brushing over the side of his neck before one stubbly jaw was buried in it. They were both so hurt, so broken, and so scared, but they could be broken together, and maybe it could be beautiful. In that moment, Cas was the gravity that gripped him to the Earth and he was sure that, without him, he’d float away. Cas was the something that he’d been so craving for the past decade. Cas was everything. A tired smile pulled at his lips, emotions muddled deep within him, but there was one thing he knew for sure. Arms circling tighter around the shorter man’s waist, he buried his face in his neck and kissed it gently. Any time, Cas could tell him to stop, to move away, but he didn’t, and it was more than Dean could’ve ever hoped for.

“I’ll keep you safe.” He promised, letting his eyes close as he memorized the scent that wafted from the angel, pulling him infinitesimally closer and never close enough. “I swear to everything holy, I’ll keep you safe, Cas.”


	21. Admission

Cas moved slowly in his arms. So slowly he thought he may have been imagining it. So slowly it was as if he debated each delicate movement before following through. As if he had to think to make sure he wanted to rest his palm on Dean’s stubbled cheek, or pull away just enough to lock gazes. Uncertain blues and steadfast greens. Dean’s breath hitched in his throat, so close he could feel the gentle warmth of Cas’ breath across his lips. And then-

Eyes wide, Dean’s brain took a half second to catch up to Cas pressed against him, chapped lips soft, tentative, beneath his. Once he caught up, however, the moment gripped him hard and tugged him under the sea of everything that was Castiel and nothing else mattered. His own mouth softened, plump lips parting ever so slightly as lids fluttered to suffocate vibrant greens and let him focus completely on the man in his arms.

It was nothing he’d ever felt with Lisa, chagrined as he was to admit it. Even when they were young and excited, high on life and sticking it to the man, it never felt quite this _raw_. So full of life and adoration, he could feel the particles clinging to the air. He could smell the faint undertones of aftershave on his receptionist’s jaw, the sharp eucalyptus scent of his shampoo, both stronger than the millions of people currently inhabiting the city around him. The sound of blood in his ears drowned out the sounds of the city, and it was just him and Cas, high on a cloud without a care.

The warmth that encompassed him moved, only noticeable by how the tip of his nose straightened out from where it had been crushed against Cas’ cheek in his attempt to get as close as physically possible and the dropping of the hand from his face. He opened his eyes slowly, lips still buzzing with the feeling of the man before him, the taste, the touch, so sweet it was nearly sickening. He was nearly breathless, taking note of the way Cas’ thick lips were parted just as his were, eyes slightly darker, but… Nervous.

Dean was greedy, he was toxic, and he stepped forward to chase the warmth, uncaring of the consequences. He just wanted Cas, he needed him so badly it hurt. So badly it had hurt since that first kiss before his failed apology. He couldn’t think of a single time he’d ever wanted someone that much, not even Lisa. Cas felt like home, and home was something he’d never really had.

So, he took the initiative, broad palms coming up to Cas’ jaw, fingers wrapping around to nestle in his hair as he kissed him desperately, hungrily, like he was air and Dean was drowning. He kissed like tomorrow wasn't coming and the light was slowly fading. Not worth the shit on the other's shoe, he kissed as grateful as a beaten dog finally shown kindness. He kissed like he had nothing to lose and nowhere to go except this moment, and, in a way, he didn't. Like he’d been in the darkness for thirty-six goddamn years and Cas was the first ray of sunshine he’d seen when he’d exited the cave of his lifelong depression.

A soft ‘oomph’ from Cas followed the sudden kiss, and Dean’s heart skipped as he nearly didn’t reciprocate. But when he did, Dean took all that he could and then some. Before he could stop to think that Cas was a damn rape victim, he pressed him against the wall, callused hands sliding down his lithe figure, exploring every perfect centimeter, the wet sounds of their mouths moving together the only sound he could hear. To his surprise, Cas reciprocated. Tentatively at first, but his lips parted, allowing Dean entrance and inviting him to explore his mouth, which he did with vigor.

Their tongues slid together, Dean’s breaths steadily growing faster, harsher, as just the simple touches against his body pressed buttons he didn’t know could be pressed. A brush of fingertips over his thinly clothed ribs sent goosebumps erupting over his skin, one palm sliding around his stomach to his back sent shivers down his spine. He, himself, was hastily finding the hem of Cas’ shirt, the familiar ache settling in his groin as blood rushed to the part of his body making all the decisions right then.

When he could finally feel Cas’ skin – sturdier than Lisa’s – he withdrew, both hands and mouth. He pulled away just enough to glance at Cas through heavy lids, heart pounding in his chest and breath puffing over thick lips. “I want you.” He whispered, waiting for some kind of response. And he waited. And waited. For fourteen heartbeats he waited, but with the bobbing of his Adam’s apple and a twitch of a nod, Cas agreed and he could fly.

Blindly reaching out, Dean pulled open the sliding door and took Cas’ hand, coffee mug forgotten on the rail as he pulled his receptionist inside and connected their lips again. Each step toward the couch was punctuated by the sound of their lips smacking together, each slam of his heart accented by the rasp of his breath and all he could think was _Cas Cas Cas_ like a mantra.

It was after Cas fell backwards to the couch with a soft huff of surprise that he hastily shed his clothes, never before wanting to be more rid of them than he was in that moment. He only allowed himself half a second to realize that Cas had never seen him naked, let alone with his flagpole standing proud at full attention, before he sank to his knees and slid his palms from the other’s knees to the fork of his legs, all the while looking up at the sprawled man, each movement tentative as if he expected to get shoved off or told no. A single no and he would back off forever, and he hoped Cas knew that. The nod as he reached the fastenings spurred him forward and, soon enough, the gorgeous receptionist who’d saved him, who he’d saved, who he’d grown more close to than his own wife. Ex-wife.

“This okay?” He rasped, getting up to kneel between Cas’ legs, palms rested on either side of his body to support his weight as he looked down at him.

“Yeah. Yes.” Their lips connected again and any nervousness Dean may have felt just moments ago was lost under the tidal wave of reassurance that didn’t so much roll over him as it did crash into him, gripping him by the heel and pulling him under. It was quick work to lean back on his heels and spit in his palm, getting himself slick before pushing in with a slow, controlled push. He stuttered a breath, eyes squeezing closed as Cas hitched a shocked breath beneath him.

Eyes snapping open, Dean looked down and stopped, fully sheathed inside the other. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. For the love of God, Dean, move.” The growled command sent Dean into action, hips starting to move as he leaned down and kissed him again. They writhed on the couch, a mass of limbs, soft grunts and moans of pleasure, each thrust inward catching Castiel in such a way that his head rocked back against the cushions, mouth wide and eyes squeezed closed.

“Fuck, you’re so tight.” Dean whispered, one arm curling under Cas’ head, their bodies just inches from each other as a light sweat beaded over his back from the exertion. Heat encircled him, slowly drying out with each thrust. “I should get lube for next time.” He huffed a half chuckle and pulled out to reapply his spit and go back to work.

Cas didn’t seem to mind. Instead, blue eyes opened and look up at him with a crooked smile that broke with parted lips and pleasure. Shadows danced around them, keeping their secrets, and air caressed their overheated bodies. He reached between them as the familiar knot in his lower abdomen tightened threatening release. He couldn’t come before Cas, wouldn’t allow it. So his hand moved quickly over the thick member in his hand, brushing over the tips and eliciting the sexiest series of moans he’d ever heard. “Cas… I’m gonna-” He cut himself off, not letting himself finish in either respect as he slowed his hips and worked Cas faster. “Come for me,” he breathed, feeling Cas clench around him.

Knowing that was his cue, Dean groaned as he sped up his hips, continuing with his hand and matching pace with his snapping hips. It was all of ten rushed breaths before his hips stuttered and a long groan was pulled from the lowest point of his lungs, pulsing inside Cas as the other did the same in his hand, painting his own chest white with Pollock-y perfection.

He swallowed the thick lump in his throat and withdrew, kissing over Cas’ neck, feeling the heat radiate around them, caught in the bubble of what they’d been through and who they were and everything he wanted to, but couldn’t say.

Or maybe he could.

With a rush of what could only be post-sex stupidity, he took a deep breath and let it out. “It was you.” He whispered against golden, glistening skin, his body filled with cotton balls and ears ringing in the aftermath of their workout.

He’d wanted to break in the new couch anyway, the admission had been an afterthought.

“What was me?” Cas whispered in his ear, sending another ripple of goosebumps down his body.

“I-uh…”  He’d gotten that far, talked about his father and his dream and his fear of being anything but heterosexual. Might as well go the distance. Lazily rolling to his side to nestle between the back of the couch and Cas’ overheated body, he rested his head on the other’s chest and listened to the soft thrumming of his heart, how it sambaed with his own frantic beats. “Lisa just left me, I got fucked up and found my dad’s gun. It was in my mouth, cocked, but I didn’t pull the trigger. Because of you.”

“What’d I do?”

Dean chuckled softly, reaching over both of them to pick up his boxers from the floor and start wiping away the gobs of spunk sprawled across Cas’ chest in the pale gray hours of early morning. “You responded.” He whispered, that night coming back into hazy focus behind his eyes. Drunk, alone, and so far down in the dumps he never thought he’d get out, but in a moment of weakness, he’d reached out, and it had turned out to be the best decision he’d ever made. Well, outside of starting a multi-million dollar company from absolutely nothing.

“I responded to what?”

Dean blinked and looked up, releasing the thin fabric in favor of the scratchy stubble that coated the other man’s jaw. “My text, jackass.” He chuckled quietly. “That night, I didn’t pull the trigger because I was a coward, but I didn’t try again because I had you.” Yuck. Honesty tasted like cotton candy and rainbows and hearts. It was so mushy and chick flick-y it made his teeth hurt, but it needed to be said. “And, hey, I lost my gayginity because of you too.” The serious and hopeful expression of his lover was replaced with a roll of eyes and a soft smirk as his head relaxed back against the arm of the couch.

“Well, I’m glad you decided life was worth living.”

“Yeah. Me too.” He sighed, eyes closing. Not a thought ran through his head, not a worry, it was just him and Cas and the sunrise. Tomorrow, he could possibly face the regret that the other held for letting down his defenses, or he’d end up saying something stupid. He always ended up driving people away. But in that moment, everything was perfect, and he would take it.


End file.
